


waves that rolled you under

by irishmizzy, miss_bennie



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-29
Updated: 2013-10-29
Packaged: 2017-12-30 19:33:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 31,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1022560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/irishmizzy/pseuds/irishmizzy, https://archiveofourown.org/users/miss_bennie/pseuds/miss_bennie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>“Costa Rica,” Harry says, like it’s the start of another dumb round of the game. Zayn pictures it, imagines it’d be quiet and hot, the beach and the jungle and blue skies everywhere. Probably wouldn’t be too bad.</i><br/> </p><p>Or: the one where they burn out, fuck off, and try to figure it all out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	waves that rolled you under

**Author's Note:**

> Completely untrue, no disrespect, please do not read this to anyone in an interview, etc. [cashewdani](http://archiveofourown.org/users/cashewdani), we baked this apology cake for you.

Zayn wakes up because he can hear them standing just outside his bunk, talking about him like he isn’t less than a meter away. At least they’re whispering this time.

“He’ll kill you if you wake him,” Louis hisses.

“I wasn’t going to wake him, I was just going to ask if he needed anything if he was awake,” Liam says.

“What, like another Gatorade?”

“I was trying to be nice.”

“Be nicer if you put vodka in it,” Harry says. “Ow, don’t hit, Louis, you know it’s true.”

“Can I have that, since he’s clearly not awake?” Niall asks.

“No, you can get your own.”

Zayn knows he should tell them he’s not asleep, that he’s fine and he doesn’t need Gatorade or vodka or a cuddle or anything other than for everyone to leave him alone. But just thinking about pulling open the curtain makes his head ache.

“Leave him be.” Paul’s voice cuts through the noise, deeper than everyone else’s hushed whispers.

“But --”

“Out. All of you. Now.”

There’s a sigh, then shuffling as they leave, grumbling under their breath. Someone’s hand darts through the curtains, fumbling to pat Zayn on the hip. Harry, he thinks, judging by the rings. Zayn stays very, very still.

“Let’s go,” Paul says. Harry squeezes his hip, once, and then Zayn’s alone.

With everyone gone, he can hear the rain drumming on the roof of the bus again. It was raining the day Perrie gave him back the ring. It’s probably still sitting there, on the countertop in the kitchen. He hadn’t been able to bring himself to touch it.

He rolls onto his side, pulls his blanket up higher. Closes his eyes and wills himself back to sleep. 

**

It’s the same in the next city, and the one after that. Their sell-out stadium tour of America and he’s spending it wishing he were back on the bus, asleep.

It takes all of his energy to seem happy on stage, to make it seem like everything’s still normal, when really he feels like a vase someone dropped and then glued back together, none of the pieces in quite the right place.

He keeps waiting for it to get better with time, the way everyone promises that it will. It doesn’t.

**

“Alright?”

Zayn shrugs. There’s no point in saying yes, Liam wouldn’t believe him anyway. 

“Do you -- can I?” Liam starts and then stops, shifting from one foot to the other. 

“‘m fine, Liam. Just tired.” He closes his eyes so he won’t have to see whatever sad, pitying look Liam throws his way. He can’t take those looks anymore.

“Didn’t your mother ever tell you not to ask stupid questions, Liam?” Louis asks from the other couch. He doesn’t look up from his phone. 

Liam frowns. “Isn’t it ‘there are no stupid questions?’” 

The door to the dressing room hits the wall with a bang and Harry stalks in, body rigid. Zayn reaches for his jacket and thinks about making his escape while everyone’s distracted. He manages to slip off the couch just before Harry sits.

“What’s with you?” Louis asks, poking his toes in Harry’s stomach. “Did it go poorly?”

“Nothing. No, it’s just --” he scrubs his hands over his face. “Stupid questions, stupid interviewer.”

“So the usual?”

Harry laughs hollowly and flicks a stray peanut at Louis. Louis catches it and sends it toward Liam’s head. “See, Payno, there _are_ such things as stupid questions.”

“So many stupid questions.” Harry’s eyes flick over to Zayn. It’s quick, but that’s all Zayn needs to know the questions were about him. It figures. They’ve mostly been lately. 

“’m fine,” he says, shrugging into his jacket. He’s halfway down the hall before he realizes that for once, no one had asked. 

**

Zayn’s just lit his second cigarette when the door slams open and Harry storms out. He hesitates when he sees Zayn but doesn’t say anything. Harry’s been doing the lion’s share of promo work lately, him and Niall and Liam stuck shouldering the burden while Louis sightsees with Eleanor and Zayn hides in bed. They’ve done it this way in the past, too, but this go around it’s worse somehow.

They stay silent for a while, Harry angrily kicking at a pebble, until Zayn sighs and asks, “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Harry says sullenly, and Zayn snorts. It’s clearly something but if he doesn’t want to say, whatever. 

“I’m not --” Harry kicks the rock at the wall, his hands balled into fists. “I’m not sick of it, y’know, I’m just.” He kicks the rock again, harder. Zayn watches it bounce and skitter away. 

“Yeah,” is all he says.

**

It’s a surprise when Harry climbs onto the relaxation bus after the show that night. Zayn’s had it to himself for the past few weeks, ever since -- well, for a while now. But Harry’s just there, sprawled out on the couch when Zayn comes out of the bathroom.

“I’m just tired,” he says, his eyes still closed. Standing this close, Zayn can see the circles under his eyes, dark like bruises. He reaches out to smooth the furrow in Harry’s brow but stops himself before he makes contact. Harry probably just wants to be left alone. 

“You shouldn’t sleep out here,” he says. Harry hums but doesn’t actually move.

**

“If you could go anywhere --”

“Seriously?” Zayn asks, squinting in the too-bright morning sun. They haven’t played this one in ages, since before they actually had gone pretty much everywhere in the world. The last time, everyone’d said home and Louis declared them all rubbish and banned the game from the bus.

Harry curls his hands around his mug and nods. The circles under his eyes are just as dark as they were last night. 

“Dunno,” Zayn says, shrugging. He’s not in the mood for this. He’s only sitting with Harry because he’d been here first, eating toast quietly before Harry plopped himself down. “Home, I suppose. You?”

“Same.” Harry looks out the window, past where Louis and Paul are playing football to where there are already girls queuing along the fences. After a minute he laughs. “Louis was right, we’re shit at this now.”

**

The more he thinks about it, the more Zayn realizes home is the last place he wants to go. He doesn’t want to know what the house is like without Perrie. Or Hatchi. Fuck, just the thought is enough to make him feel ill and exhausted.

There’s no place he really wants to go, but he still says “Ibiza,” the next time he sees Harry, when they’re getting sorted for soundcheck. It takes him a minute to catch on, but then he smiles.

“LA,” Harry says, while Louis snaps his fingers at them, realization dawning on his face.

“Oh, are we playing this again?” Liam asks, grinning as he slings his arm around Zayn’s neck. “I think I’d quite like to go to Hawaii.”

“Home,” Niall says definitively, and Louis groans.

“You ruined it,” he says, pinching Niall’s side. Niall bats his hands away. “It was going so well and you ruined everything!” 

“There’s loads of surfing in Hawaii,” Liam says, watching Louis chase after Niall. Zayn pats him on the arm reassuringly.

“It was a good choice, mate.”

**

Sometimes, in the middle of a show or while they’re dicking around backstage or when they’re in a van getting shuttled to fuck knows where, sometimes Zayn forgets and feels good for a minute, feels happy, laughs without feeling like his bones are grinding against each other and his skin is stretched too thin.

It always, always, always comes back though, slamming into him like a runaway train. And that’s the worst part, because just when he remembers how to be happy, it slips through his fingers, disappears, the ache in his chest coming back threefold.

**

They’re in Dallas when his voice breaks on “Story of My Life.” It’s a fluke, but that doesn’t matter because a gasp still goes through the crowd, this giant collective sigh that has Zayn clenching his jaw, Liam’s hand gripping his shoulder like a vise.

The rest of the show is a blur, the other lads are jumping over each other, laughing and knocking each other around even more than usual, like they’re trying to distract the crowd and Zayn from how #zaynstears is probably already trending on Twitter. 

It doesn’t work, obviously, because Zayn can’t stop replaying the moment, can’t stop thinking of all the ways he’s going to hear about this for the next ten days. If Perrie’s going to hear about it. He hopes she doesn’t. He doesn’t want to give her the satisfaction of knowing he’s a sad, broken mess. Or maybe he does. Maybe he selfishly wants her to feel as miserable as he does. More miserable, even. 

He’s so caught up in his own thoughts he misses it when Liam tackles Niall and Niall goes down hard. And doesn’t immediately get back up.

**

“This sucks.” Niall’s sat on his hotel bed, bag of ice on his swollen knee. The rest of them are scattered around his room, coming down from the adrenaline high.

“I’m really sorry,” Liam says for what’s probably the hundredth time. Even Niall’s rolling his eyes now, and Niall’s got a good dose of painkillers in him.

“‘M _fine_.” Niall waves at his leg, plastic bracelet sliding down his wrist. His knee had been twice its normal size by the end of the show and Paul had insisted on taking him to hospital. 

“I’m not getting you whiskey, I’m getting you an x-ray,” he’d said as they loaded Niall into a golf cart to get him out of the arena. 

“‘s just a dodgy knee, nothing’s irreparably damaged.”

“But --”

“Liam,” Niall cuts him off, sounding annoyed. “It was an accident, yeah? So let it go. Toss me the menu, I’m starved.”

Liam makes a face but stops apologizing and hands the room service menu to Louis, who carelessly throws it at Niall.

“Careful,” Liam says, scowling. 

“He’s fine, calm down,” Louis says. “Is there anything good? Now you’ve got me hungry, too.”

Zayn starts shoving pillows out of the way, making himself more comfortable on the extra bed while Niall reads the menu aloud. He could fall asleep like this, right here, listening to Niall list all the different ways they serve eggs after 11pm.

“D’you want anything?” Harry drapes himself over Zayn’s back even though there’s plenty of space on the bed. 

“You to get off me.” 

“Don’t think there’s any of that on the menu.” There’s a hole in the side of Zayn’s shirt, just under his ribs, and Harry sticks his finger in it, scratching at Zayn’s skin until Zayn squirms.

“Oi, you’d better not be ruining my shirt,” Louis says. 

Zayn frowns. “Had holes when I found it, Lou.”

“When you stole it.”

Zayn shrugs, or tries to. It’s hard with Harry plastered to his back like a wet blanket. “None of mine have long enough sleeves.”

Harry goes unbearably still as an awkward silence settles over the room; Zayn’s entire body goes hot. He presses his face into the pillow and breathes in stale air. Fuck. He’s been stealing Louis’ shirts for weeks, had assumed he’d figured out why, that they all had, but now who knows.

When he finally cracks open his eye, they’re all having some sort of silent conversation with their eyes. It makes him feel even worse.

He moves to get up but Harry won’t let him. He sits up, knees digging into Zayn’s side as he coughs and says, “Right. Are there tacos on the menu? Niall, get loads of tacos.”

“Liam’s nearest the phone,” Niall says, pointing.

Zayn can feel it when Harry sighs, exasperated. “Liam, loads of tacos.”

“Sure.” Liam nods at Harry. His face changes when he looks at Zayn, softens. “Do you --”

“No,” Zayn says. He’s aiming for angry but it just comes out hollow and pathetic. Liam blinks and his face is back to normal. He rolls his eyes and picks up the phone.

“Anywhere in the world,” Louis says, while Liam orders. “Go.”

“Melbourne,” Niall says immediately.

“Oh, me too,” Liam says before turning his back to them when someone answers the phone.

“Nepal,” Harry says. Niall makes a face and Zayn’s certain Harry makes one back. “What? Mount Everest is in Nepal.”

He prods Zayn’s back until Zayn says, “Jupiter,” even though that’s not really far enough, not for how he’s feeling now.

Liam puts his hand over the phone’s mouthpiece. “That doesn’t count, it’s -- yes, sorry, how many tacos did you say were in a plate?” He mouths _cheater_ at Louis while pointing at Zayn.

“‘s not cheating,” Louis says. “It’s a place, he wants to go there.”

“But you can’t _go_ to Jupiter,” Liam says. “That’s like saying you want to go to Antarctica.”

“Tacos!” Harry yells, throwing something that makes Liam flinch.

“You can go to Antarctica,” Louis says carefully.

“But it’s like, uninhabitable,” Niall says. 

“You can still _go_ there, though.”

“What about Uranus? Can I go there?” Niall cackles at his own joke, laughing so hard the ice falls off his leg and onto the floor.

Zayn closes his eyes and listens to them bicker about the validity of outer space as a destination. Harry slides off his back but stays near enough that his hand’s still curled around Zayn’s ribs, anchoring him to the bed. Zayn takes careful, measured breaths, counts them in and out, until he falls asleep.

**

“If Liam reminds me that I’m supposed to be resting my leg one more time I’ll --” Niall limps in and drops onto the dressing room couch, right on top of Zayn’s legs. Zayn kicks at him until he scoots back so less of his weight is on Zayn’s shins. 

“You’ll what?” 

Niall shrugs, his anger already petering out. He tips his head back and draws in a breath, wincing as kicks his bad leg up on the table. 

“I don’t know how you haven’t killed him yet, he’s so…”

“Concerned?” Zayn offers, smirking. It’s sort of amusing now that he’s not the one Liam’s clucking over. Or the only one. Liam had still cornered him after breakfast to make sure he was feeling okay, to see if he needed anything.

Niall glares at him. “Thought we’d broken him of that, but no, it was just laying -- what’s it?”

“Dormant,” Zayn says. Niall ignores him.

“Y’know, like a volcano?”

“Dormant,” he says again, but Niall shrugs like it’s an unsolvable riddle. Zayn rolls his eyes. “D’you need like, ice or anything?”

“No.” Niall pulls out his phone. “D’ya need like, a hug?”

The question hangs in the air. No one ever really said anything after he brought up his shirts, and even though it’s been a few days, he feels like he’s waiting for the other shoe to fall. For someone to sit him down and make him talk about it. 

After a moment, Niall’s cheek twitches like he’s trying not to laugh and Zayn knows he’s just taking the piss. He scowls. “‘m going back to sleep.” 

Niall pats his knee and doesn’t say anything, already absorbed in his phone.

**

“Zayn Malik!” Niall grabs his elbow and reels him in during the show. He grins and bounces on his toes, excited-like, but it’s forced, Zayn knows. Niall’s got his knee brace on and a tic in his jaw he gets when he’s not slept well. Still, Zayn mimics him, forces his face into the same pasted-on smile, rocks back on his heels like he isn’t exhausted down to his bones. Tries to remember what it was like when it wasn’t so _hard_ all the time. “Mr. Malik, if you could go anywhere in the world -- anywhere _on Earth_ \-- where would you go?”

Somewhere behind him, Louis laughs, loud and bright. 

“Well.” Zayn pretends to think about it. “If I could be anywhere in the world, I think I’d like to be right here.”

The crowd screams, even though it was the most obvious answer. 

Later, when it’s just him and Niall and Liam in the hotel lift, Niall rolls his eyes again. 

“Anywhere in the world and you pick Denver?” 

“What was he supposed to say, then?” Liam asks. “We’re literally _in Denver_ , he couldn’t well tell them their city’s shit.” 

Niall shrugs, conceding the point. 

Zayn leans back against the wall and thinks of places to go. His first thought, as always, is of home, and how the tour is going to end sooner rather than later. He feels dizzy all of a sudden, grabs onto the metal railing to steady himself. Maybe this lift's one of the ones that skips a bunch of floors and goes super fast. He takes a deep breath, ignoring the weird look Liam shoots him.

“Miami,” he says, because he remembers liking it every time. 

The lift stops. 

“Miami’s not bad,” Niall says. “Know where I liked? Amsterdam.”

Liam gently shoves him off the lift, laughing. Zayn follows, his legs unsteady.

**

“What’re you doing here?” Harry asks when Niall climbs onto the bus a couple nights later. 

“Fuck you too, Styles,” Niall says, limping past him. Harry makes a face at Zayn. Zayn shrugs. Anyone can sleep on either bus. Just because he and Harry have had this one to themselves for a while doesn’t mean it’s only theirs.

He can hear Niall slamming things around in his bunk and grumbling to himself. Sighing, he turns and follows after him.

“Alright, Nialler?”

“FINE,” he yells, so forcefully Zayn’s eyebrows go up involuntarily. Harry’s face looks the same, but after a minute he shrugs and heads off to watch a movie or whatever he does lately. Zayn doesn’t know, he’s usually asleep by now. 

Zayn crawls into his bunk but for some reason can’t fall asleep. He lies awake for hours, listens to Niall move about and stares at the spot on the wall where he’d had a picture of him and Pez taped up last tour. It’s blank now. The whole wall is blank.

It’s been so long and he still hates looking at it.

**

“Well aren’t we a couple a rays of sunshine,” Niall says. His voice is startlingly loud in comparison to their usual silence. They’re somewhere in the desert, the sun bleeding into the horizon like it’s a painting. They’ve been on the bus for forever it feels like. Zayn had tried to sleep at first but gave up after the first hour of tossing and turning. It’s like he used up all his sleeping on the earlier chunk of the tour and now that things are winding down and he’s truly exhausted, he can’t sleep at all.

“Bet the other bus is a real party,” Harry says. “You can switch when we stop.” 

Niall makes a face. “If I have to listen to Louis talk to Eleanor on the phone one more time, I’m gonna throw Louis and his phone off the bus.”

Zayn laughs, flips back a page in his book. He's read the same paragraph six times, for some reason can't get it to stick in his brain. When he looks up, Harry's moved closer on the couch, looking at him carefully.

“You look like shit.” 

Zayn nods once, eyes back on the book. “Thanks, babe.” 

“‘m serious.” He catches Zayn’s chin in his hand, tilts his face toward the light. 

“Leave me alone,” Zayn says, pulling away. It’s rich coming from Harry, who looks like he’s been hit by a truck and backed over a few times. 

“You both look like shit,” Niall says. 

Harry flops backwards so he falls into Niall’s lap, his finger pointing in Niall’s face as he half-heartedly says, “Rude.” 

Niall smooths his thumb over the crease in Harry’s forehead. He shrugs. “True, though.”

Zayn gives the paragraph another go, but he can’t concentrate with the way Harry’s staring at him. He gives up and turns to the window, watches the sun sink into the sand until all he can see is Harry and Niall’s reflections against the night sky.

**

He hates that he can’t sleep. He tries everything he can think of but no matter what he does or how knackered he is, he’s wide awake the second his head hits the pillow. It’s horrid. His mood gets worse and worse every day, and even though all he wants is for the tour to be over, he can’t think of anything more painful than going home. 

There’s no real way to ignore the concerned looks people keep shooting at him, they’re everywhere now. He hates it, it only makes him angrier, and he’s trapped in this terrible cycle that makes him want to hit something. Someone.

“Alright, cranky, have it your way,” Louis says, after Zayn snaps at him at breakfast one day. No one else had even tried to sit near Zayn, he’s become that terrible to be around. He knows he should cut it out, but he doesn’t know how.

Louis manages to pinch Zayn’s side and evade his hand when he lashes out. He snags Zayn’s muffin as a final fuck you and leaves him sitting there, alone with his thoughts. It should be a relief, but it’s the last place Zayn wants to be.

**

They all five do an interview in Seattle. They haven’t done one together in ages, seems like. Zayn vaguely remembers making the rounds in New York, barely saying two words, feeling like he was in a fog the whole time. 

He still feels like that now, actually, can hardly arse himself to pay attention to what anyone’s saying.

“And Zayn,” he hears, forces himself to look alive. “You went through a pretty public break-up this year, how was it --”

He misses the rest of the question. It’s been so long since anyone asked him about it directly that he’s stunned, overwhelmed by a whole car crash of emotions. All he knows is that at some point the guy’s mouth stops moving and he looks expectantly at Zayn.

“Uh, it’s been tough?” he manages to say without his voice sounding too strained, even though all the air’s gone out of his lungs. Liam jumps in then, saying something about how it’s never easy, innit, not even if you’re at home, and Zayn can’t parse it over the blood rushing in his ears, that familiar ache seeping through him until he can’t focus on anything else. 

After, he shuts himself in his hotel room, curtains drawn. The bed feels too big, too empty as he lies there, literally counting his breaths, until he doesn’t feel like he’s going to be sick. It takes a long, long time.

**

On stage he feels like he’s going through the motions. Offstage, too. It’s constant, never-ending, and he just -- he thought it’d be gone by now, but it’s like a wound that keeps ripping open before it gets a chance to fully heal.

He’s starting to think it never will.

**

“He lives,” Harry says, raising his arms over his head when Zayn stumbles out of his bunk late one night. He hadn’t wanted to stay in his hotel room; turns out he wasn’t the only one.

“Couldn’t sleep,” he mumbles, even though Harry didn’t ask. He feels strung out, tired and restless at the same time, like he’s at his wits end. 

He sits down when Niall makes room for him without looking up from the TV. The noises from the video game are the only sounds on the bus for a long time. Zayn watches without paying attention, Niall a warm weight against his side. He doesn’t know how long it is before Harry poking Zayn’s thigh with his toes.

“Costa Rica,” he says, like it’s the start of another dumb round of the game. Zayn pictures it, imagines it’d be quiet and hot, the beach and the jungle and blue skies everywhere. Probably wouldn’t be too bad. 

It takes him a while to think of a place, and by the time he says, “Monaco,” Harry’s poking him again. 

“We should go.”

“To Monaco? 

“Costa Rica.” Harry makes a face like Zayn’s an idiot. “You weren’t serious about Monaco, were you?”

Zayn shrugs. He wasn’t, really. Most of the time he’s playing like he’s picking places out of a hat, doesn’t really care one way or another.

“Costa Rica,” Harry says again. He somehow manages to look stubborn and hopeful at the same time.

“But --”

“After the tour, obviously, like, soon as we’re done, yeah?”

“Be sick,” Niall says. “I’m in.”

Harry looks up from his iPad and grins. “C’mon. What else are you gonna do, mope around at home?”

“Fuck off,” he says, pushing at Harry’s ankle so he’s not touching Zayn anymore. He feels trapped all of a sudden, caught between Harry’s legs and Niall’s whole side pressed against him. It’s hard to breathe.

Harry waits a beat before putting his feet back where they were. “C’moooon,” he wheedles. 

Zayn’s chest feels tight. They have so much time off coming up, a surprising chunk of empty calendar space before the next album release and Harry’s right, there isn’t anything tying him to London. At least not right now.

He chews on his lip and seriously considers it. Watches as Niall scores a goal, and then another. When he shrugs, Niall’s head moves up and down where it’s resting on his shoulder.

“Sure. Alright.”

“Yesssss,” Niall says, dragging it out. When Zayn looks over, Harry’s got the brightest smile he’s had in weeks. 

“Brilliant. Booked the tickets ten minutes ago.”

Niall laughs and shoves the game controller into Zayn’s hands while he climbs over Zayn and tries to wrestle the iPad from Harry.

“Would you let me -- give it -- c’mon, Harry, I’ll find us the sickest place to stay.”

“I’ll cancel your ticket,” Harry says. “I paid extra for the insurance.”

“Cancel your own ticket, I don’t want you there if you’re gonna be a broody bastard. You’ll ruin my trip.”

That aching exhaustion settles over Zayn again. He knows he should get up and try to go to sleep in his bed, instead of out here, where Niall’s basically listing increasingly ridiculous things he wants to to do. It seems like such an effort, though, moving, so he just curls his legs under him and tips his head sideways. Pictures blue skies and palm trees instead of the empty, echoing rooms waiting for him back home.

**

The remaining shows drag on for ages. They’re all five of them completely done in, using up all their energy on stage every night before they crash. Niall seems to have made it his personal mission to drag Zayn across the finish line, though. He keeps sidling up to Zayn mid-show to mention something brand new he’s decided he wants to see or do in Costa Rica.

He’s pretty sure Niall’s doing it to Harry, too, judging by the way Harry’s rolling his eyes and half-laughing whenever Niall leans over to talk to him.

“Aztec burial grounds,” he says to Zayn in LA, while Liam and Louis are caught up in some strange leg wrestling competition on the floor. Harry’s allegedly refereeing, but Zayn’s pretty sure he’s too focused on eating his banana to determine a winner.

Zayn rolls his eyes. “That’s Mexico,” he says, laughing, but Niall just grins and taps him, beep beep boop, before spinning away to declare Liam victorious.

**

As usual, they’re the only people in the airport lounge. It has that stale, depressing aura they always have, too quiet and too empty for so much space. It gets an itch under Zayn’s skin, leaves him feeling restless, desperate.

“Costa Rica,” Louis sniffs, hands shoved into the pockets of his sweatshirt.

“Such a hardship, goin’ home to Eleanor.” Niall aims a punch at his stomach, pulls it at the last second so Louis flinches before he makes contact. Niall cackles.

“S’not too late,” Zayn says. There’s probably seats left, right? And like, lots of room? Harry’d talked loads about the house he rented but Zayn hadn’t really paid attention. It looked spacious in the pictures.

Louis, predictably, pulls an awful face. “Like I want to spend anymore time looking at your ugly mug. ‘m sick of you lot and I never want to see you again.”

“Oh, scarecrow, you’ll miss me most of all.” Harry throws himself at Louis’ back with such force that they both topple over, Harry’s unwieldy limbs almost taking Niall down with them. 

“Have fun, yeah?” Liam bumps his shoulder against Zayn’s, leaning into him until Zayn nods. He watches Niall hop around, doesn’t turn because he knows Liam’s got that worried face he gets and Zayn already feels like he’s barely holding it together. He just wants to get on the plane and go to sleep.

“You three, leave, you’re boarding,” Paul says, motioning to the door. “And don’t call me from San Jose with a sob story because I will not bail any of you out of jail. Not even you.” He points at Zayn.

“We’d call Liam,” Harry says, the _duh_ left unsaid as they file out, quick hugs all around.

Liam’s weak, “Please don’t,” is the last thing Zayn hears before the door swings shut behind him.

**

It’s early when their flight get in. That doesn’t stop Harry and Niall; they’re practically dancing through the airport. Zayn blindly follows behind them, brain still muzzy with sleep. 

“D’you want to get our bags?” Harry asks him, “or come with me?”

Zayn shrugs. Harry takes it as a yes for bags and points him and Niall in the direction of the carousel. He doesn’t think to ask Niall what Harry’s doing, just stands with their backpacks while Niall hauls their suitcases off the conveyor belt. 

No one stops them. No one even looks twice at them. There’s a security guard hovering nearby, has been since they got off the plane, but even he’s keeping a respectable distance.

“Ready?” Harry appears out of nowhere and grabs his suitcase. 

“Didja get a good one?” Niall asks as they head for the exit. 

Harry shrugs. “Think so. They’re bringing it ‘round.”

It’s not until they’re outside that Zayn realizes Harry’s actually rented a car. The security guard helps load their bags into the back, waving goodbye as they pile in.

“This is strange,” Harry says as they pull away from the curb. “Feels backwards.”

“S’cause it is,” Niall says. He’s already fiddling with the radio, scrolling through static and morning talk shows until he finds something he likes. He turns it up, louder and louder, until it drowns out the voice in the GPS. He and Harry laugh hysterically, doing some made-up dance in their seats, while Harry tries to navigate his way out of the airport. 

“You need to turn into the right lane,” Zayn says, leaning forward in his seat. “No, the right. Harry, _right_.” 

Harry and Niall are singing so loud they don’t hear him. Harry figures it out anyway; Zayn leans back as they merge onto the highway. Everything looks rippled through the Jeep’s scratched plastic windows, like he’s trapped in a funhouse. Niall turns the radio up even louder. When he turns around to look at Zayn, he’s smiling so bright Zayn can’t help but smile back. Their excitement is contagious and he can feel it spreading through him, waking up something that’s been asleep for a long time. He catches Harry looking at him in the rearview mirror, his eyes are practically sparkling with how lit up they are. For the first time, Zayn lets himself think that things might actually turn out okay.

The car jerks. “Whoops,” Harry says. “Sorry, mates.”

Of course, there’s a distinct possibility they’ll die before they get to that point.

**

“Never again,” Niall says, as Harry turns a corner and almost veers into oncoming traffic. Again. “We’re getting there and we’re parking this car and we’re never driving it again.”

“Sure we are.”

“No,” Zayn says firmly.

Niall turns his head the tiniest bit, like he’s afraid to take his eyes off the road. “See? Two against one.”

“Niall Horan, you made me rent this car so we could have off-roading adventures and now -- shit, sorry,” he sticks his arm out the window to apologize. “Sorry! Now you’re telling me that you want to leave it sat in the drive the whole time?”

“I’m tellin’ you I’d like to live to see twenty-five!”

Harry grunts, pouting.

“Are we there yet?” Zayn whines, just to be annoying.

“Get stuffed,” Harry says. “Both of you. See if I ever plan a vacation for you again.”

Any response Zayn has dies in his throat when the GPS tells them to turn left.

**

The house makes it worth the nightmare drive. It’s as open as the pictures had made it seem, right on the beach, but it’s dingier, too, smaller and more run-down than Zayn expected. It makes it feel homier. After spending all his time in hotel rooms and bus bunks, it’s exactly what he wanted without even knowing it. Funny, that.

“Alright,” Harry says, first thing, “everybody hand over your mobiles.” 

Niall, who’s already typing something on his, laughs, but Harry’s serious. He goes so far as to pluck Zayn’s out of his pants pocket. “Oh, calm down, your mum knows where you are, it’ll be fine,” he says. “C’mon, I’m declaring full Twitter lockdown.” He motions for Niall to hand it over and ends up snatching it out of his hand when Niall takes too long.

“Wanker,” Niall says. Harry reads whatever he’d been writing and snorts. He tilts the screen so Zayn can see Niall’s half-Spanish, half-incomprehensible tweet. It’s got about twelve exclamation marks in it. 

Harry turns each of their phones off before chucking them into a drawer in the kitchen.

“House rule number one,” he says, shutting the drawer. “That drawer stays closed. Unless we need like, a spatula. But only then. No touching the phones!”

**

It’s a lot, just being here. Zayn wanders away from the kitchen, bag dragging behind him until he finds a bedroom.

“Don’t you fall asleep!” Harry yells down the hall. “We’ve exploring to do!”

Zayn ignores him as he falls face-first onto the bed, the rollercoaster emotions of the morning catching up to him, dragging him under.

The room is stuffy when he wakes up, sweaty and sticking to the bedspread. He throws open the window, hears Harry and Niall laughing somewhere. Tracking them down feels like too much effort. He unpacks instead, folds his clothes into the drawers because he’s sick of living out of suitcases. 

It’s nothing specific, it rarely is anymore. One second he’s smoothing the creases out of a shirt, the next his eyes are burning and he can’t stop thinking about Perrie, the smooth skin of her belly and the way she laughed with her whole body and how the last thing she’d said to him was “but it’s not _supposed_ to be this hard.”

He ends up sat on the floor, clutching a pair of jeans, willing himself not to cry while some stupid bird trills the same stupid song over and over outside his window.

**

By the time he ventures out of his room, the house is quiet. He finds Niall outside, dozing in the hammock strung up between some trees.

“Hey,” he says, quietly, in case Niall really is asleep. He blinks his eyes open slowly.

“Hey. Here.” He shifts his weight like he’s waiting for Zayn to climb in next to him. He moves slowly, trying not to flip the hammock or jostle Niall’s bum knee or knee him in the junk.

“Where’s Harry?” he asks once they’re settled, the whole thing swaying gently.

“Went to the market. Pick up some stuff they didn’t leave stocked for us. Should be back soon.” Niall’s voice is syrupy slow, thick with sleep. His skin’s going pink already. Zayn’s pressing his finger against Niall’s arm before he realizes it.

“You’re burning.”

“Shh.” He pats Zayn’s head clumsily. “M’fine.” He scratches at the base of Zayn’s skull, shushes him again, and even though he only just had a nap, Zayn’s eyes are growing heavy, his breathing slowing until it matches the rise and fall of Niall’s chest.

“I’m out here, slaving away,” Harry bellows, and Zayn feels the whole hammock arc through the air.

“Fucking hell,” he says, clutching at the webbing, struggling to redistribute his body weight. On the ground, Niall moans pathetically. Harry’s grinning and bouncing on the balls of his feet.

“S’not funny,” Niall says, groaning. “Landed on me fucking arse. Fuck.” He rolls out from under the hammock but doesn’t make like he’s getting up anytime soon. “Was your trip that shit that you had to try to kill me? Jesus.”

Harry’s smile gets impossibly wider. “Guess how many people asked for a picture,” he says, and it’s only then that Zayn notices the sacks of food strewn on the ground. Harry wiggles into the space under Zayn’s feet, sitting up so he can push his toes into the ground and rock the hammock.

“Four?”

“Zero,” he crows before Niall even has a chance to guess.

“No shit,” Niall says, eyebrows raised. “Seriously?”

“It was _amazing_. Everything was outside and there’s guys selling the catch-of-the-day right nearby, and this one woman, Magda, she --”

Zayn tunes him out. He doesn’t care about Harry’s newest best friend or whatever life-changing vegetables she was selling. Instead he tries to picture a world where people don’t take pictures of Harry -- of any of them -- the second he walks in somewhere. He’s got a hat on, though, and sunglasses, and his shirt’s got proper sleeves and a neck so you can’t really see any of his tattoos. Like this, he could pass for any old tourist. Sort of. 

“When’s dinner then?” Niall asks, shading his eyes against the setting sun. “I’m starved.”

“Don’t look at me, I’m not cooking,” Harry says. “I did the shopping, my work here is done.”

Zayn touches his finger to his nose automatically. “Not it.”

Niall frowns.

“Chef Nialler! Chef Nialler!” Harry chants, until Zayn has no choice but to join in and they manage to steamroll Niall into agreeing to make dinner. “For the whole trip!” Harry adds as they shake on it, and Niall sighs, resigned.

It gets better when Harry unearths an apron in one of the drawers and manhandles Niall into it. He presses a smacking kiss onto Niall’s cheek. 

“Just following instructions.” He taps the _KISS THE COOK_ on Niall’s chest. 

“Be better if you followed the actual instructions I gave you and cut up those tomatoes.”

Harry salutes, knife slicing through the air a little too cavalierly for comfort.

“And you.” Niall turns. “Are you going to stare into space all night or are you going to wash the lettuce?” He nudges the lettuce so it rolls across the counter a little and something about it -- about this whole day, Niall and Harry and the vacation stretched out before him -- makes Zayn’s gut twist up inside. His face must give it away because Niall’s eyes widen, soften, and for a split second Zayn feels even worse.

He tamps it down, leans across the space and presses an obnoxiously sloppy kiss to Niall’s cheek. When he pulls away, Niall’s face is back to normal. Grossed out, but normal.

“Everyone can read, I’m glad,” Niall says, wiping his cheek off with the apron. “Maybe next time Harry goes into town he can befriend an elderly doctor and we can get your hearing checked. Now, _lettuce_. Tomatoes. Someone find the plates. I’m going to light the grill.”

The bird is still there when Zayn crawls into bed, buzzed and full and just the right amount of tired. He falls asleep listening to its stupid song and dreams of Perrie wearing a _KISS THE COOK_ apron, dancing around the kitchen, laughing happily, not noticing as she knocks over everything in her path. No matter how hard he tries, Zayn can’t catch anything.

He wakes up feeling like he hasn’t slept at all.

**

“Alright there, Zayn?” Harry drops onto the towel next to him. Zayn shrugs, flips over so he’s lying on his stomach. After a minute, Harry does the same, facing him.

“Alright, Haz?” Zayn asks. He looks better than he had, tanner and less wrecked after a few days of sleep and sun. The trip’s been good for him, at least. Harry smiles, half his face pressed into his towel.

He reaches out, touches Zayn’s arm carefully, like he’s checking for sunburn. 

“‘m good,” Zayn says. He’d put suncream on before coming out, is better about it than Niall even though Niall’s the one who’ll turn into a lobster and bitch about it for hours. Harry taps his arm again, gently, like he’s thinking.

Harry stares him, unblinking, and Zayn knows he’s doing the same thing, trying to decide if Zayn looks less awful than he had on tour, so doesn’t let himself look away. Maybe Harry can figure it out for him, let him know how much longer it’s going to take.

**

He wakes up one day mid-week to Harry and Niall standing at the foot of his bed, staring at him expectantly. He eyes them both for a moment before turning his face back into the pillow. Time and experience have proven that if Zayn feigns sleep for long enough, they’ll give up.

Harry comes to stand by the edge of the bed. “We’re gonna teach you how to swim.” He says it matter-of-factly, like they’ve decided and now it’s law.

“Without floaties,” Niall says sternly. And then, entirely too upbeat for the ungodly hour of half-ten, “Congratulations! Today’s the first day of the rest o’your life.” 

“Last day of yours,” Zayn says darkly. A pair of swim trunks land on his head.

“Come on, Zayn, get up,” Harry says, and there’s something in his voice that sucks the all the resistance out of Zayn. It’s the same way he’d said, “we should go” on the bus in the middle of the night, soft and urgent in a way that chips away at Zayn’s very core. It makes up his mind for him.

He still waits for them to leave before he moves. Listens for the sounds of them leaving, heading toward the water before kicking off the sheets and changing into his trunks. No point in letting them know they’ve won until the last possible second.

**

“Alright, so we’ve planned it out --”

“You’re joking, Zayn says, even though he knows they’re not. These so-called lessons are some harebrained scheme they’ve hatched and he knows, _knows_ , there’s no point in arguing. It’s the only reason he listens patiently while they talk over each other about his first day’s curriculum and tries to ignore the growing knot in his stomach. It’ll be fine, he tells himself, staring past Niall’s hip to where the waves are gently breaking on the shore. People are always going on and on about how water is like, cleansing for the soul, fresh starts and all that. Maybe, he begrudgingly thinks, maybe this won’t be the worst idea any of them have ever had.

Doesn’t mean he’s excited about it, though. He tries letting his body go limp but Niall just grabs his ankle and drags him toward the water. 

Zayn would’ve thought it would be a disaster of them trying to drown him, but they stay in the shallows, close enough that he can stand, far enough out that the waves aren’t breaking against him, and are surprisingly patient and encouraging as they try to explain the physics of floating. No one splashes him, or tries to hold him down, or even laughs when a wave takes him by surprise and he clutches Niall’s arm hard enough that it has to hurt. 

“You’re okay.” Niall keeps his voice low and Zayn breathes deep, feels the sand shifting under his feet. Harry’s nearby, demonstrating a proper float. Zayn’s starting to suspect he’s fallen asleep. Niall doesn’t pull away, he just stands there, watching the horizon, until Zayn lets go.

“Wanna try?” he asks, tilting his chin toward Harry. Zayn frowns but doesn’t say anything. Niall moves away, putting space between them so that when he flops backwards the spray doesn’t catch Zayn at all. He stands there, the two of them starfished out on either side of him, surprised by how steady he feels in the water.

“Okay,” he says eventually. Might as well.

Harry lifts his head immediately. “Yeah?” 

Zayn nods once. The way Niall and Harry are grinning is almost enough to smother the regret already backing up in his throat.

“So, just, y’know, “ Harry motions with his hands, “lie back and --”

“Think of England?” Niall offers. “Kidding, Jesus, Zayn. Just here, turn a little, sideways, like that, yeah? And then Harry’ll stay there and you just --” He makes a motion like Zayn should just fall into the water.

It takes a bit of time to work up to just tipping backwards, but he does. Takes a deep breath and lets go. It’s fucking terrifying. The panic sets in the instant his feet leave the bottom. 

“Hey, hey, chin up.” Harry’s hands come up under his back, lifting him a little. Zayn tilts his head back, concentrates on remembering everything they’d said about keeping his stomach up and his limbs out.

“Relax.” Niall brushes his hand along Zayn’s shin. Zayn would tell him to fuck off if he weren’t preoccupied. 

It gets easier. The longer he floats there, the less he has to think about it. He sort of likes the way the water rocks him up and down.

Eventually Niall nudges his hip. “So?”

Zayn blinks his eyes open and Harry’s still above his head all backlit by the sun, his hands hovering just under Zayn’s shoulder blades, not touching anymore, just there, just in case. 

“‘s not bad,” he says, closing his eyes again. Chin up, he reminds himself, and tilts his head back a little farther.

**

They do the same thing the next day. Niall rouses him out of bed in the late morning and they all wade into the ocean. They try to get him to try something new, but Zayn’s content to stretch out his limbs and focus on his breathing.

“Tomorrow, then.” Harry sounds further away. When he looks, carefully turning his head, Harry’s floating next to him. Before Zayn can panic, Niall’s touching the middle of his back, a quick, reassuring press of his palm to Zayn’s skin. He’s there. Zayn’s fine.

Eventually Niall and Harry get bored of floating and send Zayn back to shore. He’s barely cleared their airspace before they’re wrestling each other underwater, a mess of ocean spray and flailing limbs. It’s like their restraint during the morning’s lesson couldn’t be contained anymore, the stress of not splashing or roughhousing around Zayn finally reaching its breaking point.

“You’re not making this look like an alright thing,” he calls out when they resurface, coughing and sputtering.

“It’s great!” Niall yells back, right before Harry tackles him and they both go back under. They keep knocking each other over in their race to get back to shore first, tripping and shoving and laughing as they make a beeline for Zayn.

He tries to run, but all that gets him is tackled to the ground, every inch of his skin covered in sand.

**

“I said you could go instead,” Harry says again, verging on annoyed. He offers the grocery list to Niall, who shakes his head.

“You said yourself they know somebody famous rented a house ‘round here! There’s no way I can go.”

Harry shrugs. “I’ve gone twice already, no one’s bothered me.”

“But you’re like -- and I’ve --” Niall waves at Harry, who’s got a whole get-up on, glasses, long sleeves, all his hair tucked into a beanie. It looks ridiculous, really, and Zayn doesn’t know how it works, but it does. He thinks Harry accidentally picked the perfect secluded town, is all, but Harry’s convinced he’s become the world’s greatest actor. And Niall, even though he’s going a little stir-crazy staying on their property, is convinced his hair and his accent will give him away.

“We could get rid of it,” Harry suggests. “Cut the blond bits out, yeah? There’s not much left.”

Niall looks horrified. “No.” He bats Harry’s hands away from his hair. “No! I’ve seen you with scissors, I’d end up bald.”

“Fine.” Harry adds one more item to his list before capping the sharpie and tossing it at Zayn. “But I offered.”

He leaves and Niall still looks so annoyed that Zayn leans over and draws a smiley face on the inside of his wrist. Niall looks at it for a bit, mouth screwed up like smiling at it would be admitting defeat.

“I’m going to hit some balls.” He pushes off the couch, patting Zayn’s knee as he goes. Zayn watches the ceiling fan and listens to the sound of Niall hitting golf balls into the ocean, the poor man’s excuse for golfing he and Harry’ve been doing almost daily. Each thwack is slightly less vicious than the one before it, like the frustration is bleeding out of his body with each swing.

**

Well after dinner, Harry sets his beer on the counter and says, “Niall, I picked something up just for you,” with a look that Zayn immediately fears.

Ten minutes later, they’re crowded in the loo. Niall and Harry have their heads pressed together, the contents of a box of hair dye dumped out on the counter. 

Zayn sighs and pushes his glasses up his nose. “Give it here.” Perrie’d changed her hair like it was watercolors and even though he never saw her use this shit boxed kind Harry picked up, it’s not -- he knows the general idea. He thinks. He gnaws on his lip, pushes those thoughts aside and refocuses. “This is Spanish.” 

“We’re in Costa Rica,” Harry says helpfully. Zayn cuffs him upside the head and hands the instructions to Niall. 

“Try to read those. We need like, towels or something.” 

Harry comes back with one of his button-up shirts that’s missing a sleeve. “Don’t want to ruin their towels.”

“The pictures make it seem like you just mix it and then put it on?” Niall shrugs into the shirt and settles on the closed toilet seat while Zayn combines the bottles, shakes so they’re well mixed. 

“Shouldn’t you know how to do this?” Harry asks, eyes narrowed. “I feel like you should be better at this.”

Niall shrugs. “Never really paid attention. I usually fall asleep.” 

“Sure about this, mate?” Zayn asks. Niall grins and Zayn nudges Niall’s legs apart so he can get closer. Niall flinches the first time the gel hits his scalp. 

“Cold,” he says, his hands curling around the backs of Zayn’s knees, his head tipped forward. He should’ve sat on the edge of the tub, Zayn realizes belatedly. The angle’s all wrong this way. Oh well. He massages the color into Niall’s hair, the cheap plastic glove bunching under his fingertips. 

The hardest part is getting it around Niall’s ears. Harry helpfully folds down the top of Niall’s ear, holding it out of the way so Zayn can work around it. Maybe it’s that Harry does it slowly, or that it was unexpected, but Zayn can’t keep from laughing.

“Should’ve done this _before_ we started drinking,” he says, trying to calm down. “Shit, Nialler, you’re gonna end up bald or with like, leopard spots on your face.”

He doesn’t, miraculously. There’s a small spot at the back of his neck where Zayn’s hand slipped when Harry cupped his arse, but mostly it looks fine. 

“Boooo,” Harry says, after they’ve sat around waiting for it to set and Niall’s rinsed it off. “It looks just like your regular wet hair.”

“m not gonna blow dry my hair at --” he cranes his neck to look at the clock, “one in the morning just so you can see what it looks like.”

“Niall Horan, I bought you hair dye out of the goodness of my heart and this is how you repay me?”

“Leave’m alone, Haz,” Zayn says. He’s getting more and more tired by the minute, his eyelids growing heavier and heavier. “I’m going to bed.” He pats Niall’s hip as he passes, hopes Niall doesn’t hate it in the morning. Hopes Harry got the kind that washes out after a couple weeks.

“What if I blow it dry for you?” he hears Harry offer. Zayn falls into bed laughing to himself.

**

The sight of Niall in the kitchen in the morning stops Zayn dead in his tracks.

“Weird, right?” Harry says, picking at a bowl of fruit. 

“Fucking hell.” Zayn stares at Niall for a really long time, dumbstruck. 

Niall beams. The brown makes his eyes look impossibly blue. “Sick, yeah? Bagsy the next shopping trip.”

“S’all yours,” Harry says graciously. Niall’s smile somehow gets wider.

**

Niall’s already asleep on the beach when Zayn comes back from his run. 

“How’d it go?” Harry asks. Zayn shrugs and sits next to him, his chest still heaving, sand sticking to his sweaty skin. He’s yet to see anyone else along the beach on any of his runs; it’s like Harry rented the entire coastline just for them. One of these days he’ll run towards the town, remind himself what other people look like. He reaches for his toes, breathes in as the muscles in the backs of his legs pull. It feels good, just the right side of painful.

Niall snuffles, turning his face into the blanket. He’s got a sunburst on his bicep that Zayn vaguely remembers doodling late last night, while they’d waited for the dye to set, Harry goading him into drawing sunglasses on the sun because, “how else will people know he’s cool?”

“He’s gonna get burnt,” Zayn says. He doesn’t know how long they’ve been out here, but he’d run for awhile, as long as his legs and lungs could stand it, until the hollowness in his chest was replaced by the burn in his muscles, the pounding of his pulse.

Harry’s gentle when he budges up next to Niall, murmurs something Zayn can’t quite here before he starts smoothing the suncream into Niall’s back. Unsurprisingly, Niall doesn’t seem to notice. When he’s finished, Harry pulls off his own shirt and carefully uses it to wipe off the word “cock” while Zayn chuckles. 

“How long d’you think it’ll take him to notice?” Harry asks, staring at Niall’s back like he can already see the results. 

“Soon as your shit poker face gives it away.” He smiles wryly and braces for the impact when Harry launches himself at Zayn, rolling them both across the beach, both of them grappling for the upper hand.

“Some people’re sleepin, you know,” Niall grumbles, and they burst out laughing when he lifts his head to glare at them.

**

They celebrate Zayn’s first successful doggy paddle with drinks, sitting around outside still in their trunks. Harry and Niall won’t stop beaming at him like proud parents, and like, Zayn’s glad too, but it’s a bit ridiculous. He goes for a smoke halfway down the beach just to get away from them.

He doesn’t come back until he’s finished his beer and his nerves have stopped sparking up his spine.

“Shower,” Niall answers Zayn’s unasked question, passing him a new beer. 

After a bit, Niall bumps his shoulder against Zayn’s. “Did real good today.” 

Zayn feels a swell of pride in his chest, takes a long pull of his beer against it. Niall does the same and leans over, rests his head on Zayn’s shoulder. None of them have shaved since they got here; Niall’s sparse vacation fuzz is prickly against Zayn’s shoulder. He can feel it when Niall takes a deep breath, like he’s gearing up to say something he doesn’t want to. Whatever it is, Zayn’s pretty sure he doesn’t want to hear it.

He pulls out his sharpie and Niall twitches, surprised. “Where’d you get that?” 

Zayn doesn’t say anything, just concentrates on inking a palm tree on Niall’s forearm while whatever Niall’ed been about to say washes out with the tide. Keeps doodling, using Niall like the blankest canvas, until his fingertips are turning black from the all the smudged ink and Harry comes back, breaks their silence with a short laugh. 

“Y’look a mess.”

Niall looks down, assessing the damage, before he taps his empty bottle against Harry’s ankle. “One to talk.”

“Touche.” He hands them new beers and Zayn takes a long pull from his, swallows around the lump in his throat. He’s fine. Harry smiles at him and he smiles back, fills in a circle on Niall’s arm. He’s fine.

**

“You had a whole list. I wrote it myself.” Zayn stares at Niall in disbelief.

“Yeah, but --” Niall shakes the baggie of pot again, his face alight. And yeah, it’s exciting, but they’re out of lots of stuff. Like _food_.

“Well, Niall’s not allowed to go to market alone ever again,” Harry says, ruffling Niall’s hair. “Now we know.” He pats Niall down, fishes the list out of his shorts pocket. “I’ll go.”

He goes to change. In the kitchen, Zayn crosses his arms and tries to look disappointed. Niall rolls his eyes.

“Oh, come off it, s’not foolin’ anybody.” He slings his arm around Zayn’s neck, pulls him close and singsongs, “I know you’re exciiiited.”

Zayn bites the inside of his cheek. Every time he tries to squirm way, Niall presses closer, nosing at Zayn’s jaw, trying to make him laugh.

“Erm, slight problem.” Harry comes back holding a shirt in his hands. “Remember when we built that castle and it needed a flag so I tore the sleeve off my shirt?”

“Yes,” they both say slowly. Harry scratches the back of his neck.

“It may have been my last shirt.” He winces. “Let me borrow one of yours, Zayn, please?”

“Least he didn’t nick it outright, yeah?” Niall says, his mouth still right next to Zayn’s ear. Zayn sighs. 

“Yeah, ‘course. Let me find one.”

They all troop to his bedroom because apparently this is going to a group activity. And it’s not that Zayn doesn’t want to lend Harry a shirt, it’s that, well, he rather likes the limited selection he has here and Harry’s sort of reckless. It just takes him a minute to find one that he wouldn’t mind losing.

It takes a couple minutes, actually, so many that Niall disappears and comes back with a tank top of his own.

“Pass,” Harry says. He’s sat at the foot of Zayn’s bed, watching as Zayn carefully sorts his shirts into piles on the floor. “Oi, Niall, I said no!”

There’s a scuffle behind him; when Zayn turns to look, Niall’s got Harry pinned to the bed as he wrestles him into a truly hideous American flag top.

“I look ridiculous,” Harry says when Niall lets him up, and Zayn can’t stop laughing because he really does. The harder he laughs, the more Harry frowns, glaring at the two of them while batting Niall’s hands away from his nipples. 

“I’m wearing this one,” he says, pulling one off the top of the pile. He seems pleasantly surprised when he pulls it on and it actually has sleeves past his elbows.

“Do not fuck up that shirt, Harry,” Zayn says as Harry leaves. Harry waves his hand like it’s no big deal, which does little to assuage Zayn’s worries. “Harry! Do not ruin my shirt!” He keeps yelling it, leaning out the window until Harry’s all the way down the path, out of sight.

“I think he probably heard you,” Niall says cheerfully, and then his knees are digging into Zayn’s ribs as he wrestles Zayn into the tank top. He presses a smacking kiss to Zayn’s forehead when he’s done, says, “Beautiful!” and then stumbles out of the room, leaving Zayn to clean up the mess.

When Zayn finds him again later, he’s curled up in the hammock, his body contorted in the weird way that Zayn knows is to coddle his knees. The guilt comes on like a wave, even though he knows there’s nothing that would piss Niall off more than telling him to take it easy. Still. 

He drags a chair over to the hammock, wincing at the noise it makes. “Sorry.”

“Market’s farther than I thought,” is all Niall says. It’s as close to admitting defeat as Zayn knows he’ll come. When he cups his hand over Niall’s knee, the skin’s hot, hotter than normal, and swollen to boot. 

“I’m fine,” Niall says, like Zayn can’t see the tension gathering in his jaw, the rigid way he’s holding his body.

“You’re an idiot,” Zayn says, thumb rubbing in a small circle. He fishes an ice cube from the glass of water on the the ground, holds it against the swollen knob of Niall’s knee. Niall flinches at first, his face going pinched, but Zayn holds the ice there, swirls patterns against Niall’s skin until he starts to look relaxed. Until the sharpie stains are bleeding off Zayn’s fingertips, leaving runny grey trails on Niall’s leg like tear tracks.

When he looks up, he realizes Niall’s starting to fall asleep. He drags his fingers across Niall’s stomach just because, leaves behind little black streaks. Niall swats at his hand but doesn’t actually move, his body gone slack and relaxed. Zayn keeps the ice on his knee until it’s all melted, figures if it weren’t helping, Niall’ed tell him to knock it off. 

He waits for Niall’s breathing to go slow and even before he shakes the excess water off his hand. He doesn’t feel much like moving, so he digs the sharpie out of his pocket and busies himself doodling on Niall’s leg, makes sure to keep his strokes gentle enough that Niall doesn’t stir at all.

“Hey,” Zayn hears. When he looks up, Harry’s in the doorway. He’s got a strange look on his face, but by the time Zayn gets up and makes his way over, it’s gone. Harry looks normal as ever. Zayn tells himself he was imagining it, probably. 

**

“I’ll wash up,” Harry says after dinner. “You do this.” 

Harry’d come back with rolling papers, too, because Niall really had done a shit shopping job. Zayn sets up a space right there at the counter. He’s all too aware of them watching him, feels his ears go pink as they stare. Doesn’t let himself think about the way they both watch his mouth when he licks the paper. They’re all itching for this, that’s all it is.

They smoke outside, him and Harry sprawled on the loungers, Niall on the ground between them, passing the joint back and forth while the full moon lights up the sky. 

“I don’t even know what day it is,” Zayn admits, stretching out to pass the joint to Harry. The gap between their chairs feels like a canyon. It feels like a lifetime since they left California. It feels like yesterday.

“It’s Saturday,” Harry says. Zayn nods, tries to think. He doesn’t really remember what day it was when they got here. He remembers it was early. He remembers them laughing in the Jeep. He pulls out his sharpie, writes _Saturday_ on Niall’s collarbone as a reminder.

“How do you always have that?” Niall asks, eyes going wide as he lays still. Zayn can feel his heart beating under his palm, can feel it vibrating up his whole arm. “Are you magic?”

Zayn blinks at him. “It was in my pocket.”

Harry laughs so hard he almost drops the joint in Niall’s hair. Niall looks disappointed.

“Almost spent.” Harry frowns at the joint between his fingers. He curls his fingers around the hem of Niall’s shorts and tugs. “C’mere.” 

Zayn curls his arm under his head and watches Niall go up on his knees, feels his mouth curving into a smile as Harry takes a hit and pulls Niall in, hand on the back of his neck. Niall’s the worst at shotgunning, though, can’t ever stop laughing to do it proper. Zayn steals the joint back from Harry. 

“Oi, don’t waste it.” He holds the smoke in his lungs, letting his eyes drift closed until someone taps his breastbone. Niall’s so close it should startle him. He leans in without saying anything, barely waiting for Zayn to exhale before he starts laughing, his lips bumping Zayn’s as the smoke dissipates between them. Useless, Zayn thinks, tries to make his mouth form the words but Niall’s mouth is still there, laughing against his.

“Jesus, Niall, you’re -- “ Harry doesn’t finish his sentence, just shoves him out of the way and gracelessly clambers onto the lounger, pushing Zayn back as he goes. He’s all long limbs, caging Zayn in place. Instead of feeling trapped, Zayn feels grounded, like Harry’s weight on his legs is keeping him from spinning out into space. 

Harry raises his eyebrows expectantly. “Zayn.”

“Right.” Zayn takes a hit, hands whatever’s left to Niall. He sits up. Harry’s mouth gets so big when he smiles, Zayn doesn’t know how he has any room left on his face for his other features. He touches his thumb to the corner of Harry’s mouth and lets Harry close the distance between them.

His hand’s on Harry’s side, steadying him, and he can feel Harry’s rib cage expand when he inhales. His fingers slot into the spaces between Harry’s ribs, resting there even after Harry pulls back, turns his head to exhale. His smile is smaller this time, less overwhelming. Zayn slides his thumb over the curve of Harry’s cheek, laughing at the rasp of his vacation stubble.

“‘s a crap beard, mate. Been shavin’ without us?” he asks, sliding his whole palm against Harry’s jawline. It tickles. He laughs but Harry doesn’t. Zayn pokes Harry’s cheek until he cracks, dimple appearing, and Zayn grins reflexively, feels the warmth of it radiating down his body, spreading from his face to the tips of his toes. 

“Where’re you going?” Niall asks when Harry gets up and wanders away. “Where’s he going?”

Zayn shrugs, curls onto his side and watches Harry walk clumsily down to the sand. He’s just a silhouette like this, a shadow of a person. It’s how Zayn’s felt lately, like a shadow of himself. That’s why they’re here, innit? Because they’re all shadow people?

Niall prods at his side until Zayn rolls over and looks up at him. All Niall does is hold out his hands to pull Zayn up, lead him down to the beach where Harry’s lying down, letting fistfuls of sand fall through his fingers.

“Where d’you think it’s from?” Harry asks when they sit down. 

“What, the sand?” 

Harry nods. 

“The ocean?” Niall guesses, pushing some sand into a pile in front of him. 

Harry nods. “But like, look how big the ocean is, yeah? This could’ve come from anywhere.” He holds a handful of out for Niall to inspect. “Could’ve been like, Russian. Or Saharan. And eventually it washed up here, with us.”

“Seems unlikely.” Zayn shifts, lays so his head’s pillowed on Harry’s stomach, moving with rise and fall of each breath. It’s like floating, he thinks. Laughs to himself. Eventually Niall crawls over, his movements sluggish, to lay on Zayn. 

“s’like Niall but not,” Zayn says, brushing his fingertips against Niall’s brown hair. It still takes Zayn by surprise when he sees it. Niall traces Zayn’s microphone tattoo with his thumbnail. 

“Still me,” he says, smiling brilliantly. Zayn flattens his hand on Niall's head, imagines him with the blond. It takes him a minute to smile back.

“‘xactly what a bodysnatcher would say,” Harry says, reaching past Zayn to wag his fingers in Niall’s face. Niall bites at them, teeth clicking audibly. Zayn stares up at the stars. There’s so many. He falls asleep trying to count them.

**

He wakes up with dry mouth, the sun in his eyes, sand stuck in all sorts of unpleasant places. They’d all rolled apart in the night and he’s chilly now but getting up feels like an insurmountable task. He halfheartedly pushes up onto his elbows, testing himself. Nearby, Harry’s ghosting his fingers over the ink curling like flames around Niall’s shoulder, faded from the sun and salt. He drops his hand, caught, when he sees Zayn’s awake.

Zayn half-smiles and Harry does the same. Reaches out to touch Niall again. “You never draw on me,” he says, voice low, hoarse from sleep and smoke.

Zayn laughs, coughs, waves his hand in Harry’s general direction. “There isn’t any more room, mate.”

Harry’s smile falters, his fingers digging into the sand, and somehow Zayn ends up feeling like a prat even though he’s just stating the obvious. He stretches out, grips Harry’s ankle and pulls Harry’s leg into his lap. At the first touch of the sharpie to his calf Harry goes stock-still. He stays that way until Zayn’s done drawing.

“Better?” Zayn asks. Harry pulls away, contorting himself into some painful-looking yoga pose to look at his leg. He touches the edge of the robot, careful not to smudge it. When he looks up again, his face is blank.

“Well I don’t know about _better_ …” 

Zayn flicks sand at him and Harry laughs loudly, claps his hand over his mouth when Niall stirs, curling away from the noise. 

“C’mon,” he whispers, “there’s fruit in there, we can survive on our own ‘til the cook decides to get back to work.” He tugs Zayn to his feet and presses a quick kiss high on his cheek, above his beard. “Thanks, Zayner.” 

Zayn chuckles, curls around Harry’s waist as they walk back to the house. Something shakes loose in his chest, leaves him unsettled, makes it harder to put one foot in front of the other. His hip bumps into Harry’s and this time, when he laughs, it sounds strangled. He clears his throat and tries again. He sounds like he’s just woken up when he says, “Anytime.”

**

It starts raining at some point in the night, stays wet and gross all day, rain beating down on the roof like hoofbeats, like warning drums. Zayn pulls a random book off the shelf in Niall’s bedroom and curls up on the couch, appreciating the forced confinement for what it is. Harry’s taking up most of the space next to him, body draped over two-thirds of the couch, journal propped up on his knees. Zayn can’t make out what he’s writing, finds he doesn’t much care. It reminds him of being on the bus, nowhere to go, nothing to do. It’s strange; he hadn’t thought he’d missed it.

He breathes in, lets the contentment bubble up from deep in his belly, feels the unseen cracks slowly filling in. He’s felt strange since they woke up on the beach, off-kilter, but each day the ache in his chest has been getting duller. It’s like his bones are knitting together instead of breaking and re-breaking all the time. Like the most jagged pieces inside him are finally smoothing out, and his body is relearning how to be. A new normal.

Harry’s hand waves in front of his face. When Zayn looks down, his head’s tipped back, watching Zayn upside down. “You looked --” he chews his lip, goes quiet for a minute. “Dunno. Lost.”

“Just thinking.” He tucks the fraying ends of Harry’s makeshift headband back into his hair. “‘m okay.“

Harry squeezes his hand, goes back to whatever he’s writing. Zayn picks up his book, starts over at the beginning. He’s vaguely aware of Niall shouting excitedly about something, but he’s far away, staving off boredom by rooting around in the closets.

Zayn hears the guitar first, quiet and slightly out-of-tune, picking out a familiar melody as it gets louder. He starts singing automatically, like a reflex, only stops when Harry bursts out laughing.

“Sod off,” Zayn says, feeling a flush creep up his neck. Niall’s still in the doorway, playing “Little Things” and he’s laughing, too. Traitor. “I wasn’t paying attention, my mouth just kicked in before m’brain realized. S’Pavlovian.” 

“That what they always say.” Niall winks exaggeratedly. Harry laughs harder, rolling around until he ends up sprawled partly on top of Zayn and all three of them are laughing, drowning out the music and the rain.

“God,” he says, drawing in a ragged breath, looking from Zayn to Niall and back again. “Let’s never leave.”

Just like that, the mood deflates. Zayn feels like someone’s knocked all the air out of his lungs and he’s not sure why. He knows this is only temporary, that they have to go home eventually. And yet.

The rain gets louder; Niall plays some dumb made-up song, but after a minute he gets up and leaves, mumbling something about lunch.

“You’re such a twat, Haz,” he says, pulling Harry’s hair a little. Harry’s mouth opens and closes like he’s trying to find the right words but can’t. Zayn leaves his hand in Harry’s hair and goes back to reading, listens to the rain and Niall humming in the kitchen. He breathes in, tries to find that contentment again, but it’s gone.

**

Harry falls asleep like that, snoring lightly. Zayn inches out from under him and into the kitchen. Niall freezes, caught, which Zayn thinks is weird until he realizes Niall’s snuck his mobile out of the drawer.

“You sneaky bastard,” Zayn says, barely a whisper. 

“Just wanted to check. See how long before we absolutely had to go back. Figured none of us is really, y’know, ready, and since we don’t have flights back yet, maybe we --” It sounds shaky when he exhales. “Maybe we don’t have to go back just yet.”

Zayn sits on one of the stools. His brain feels sluggish, like it can’t process everything Niall’s saying. “We don’t have flights back?”

Niall shakes his head. “He booked one way, ‘cause you were -- we didn’t -- I mean. You know.”

“Right.” Zayn hadn’t realized. He’d assumed they’d had everything planned down to a tee.

“It was easier,” Niall says. “And now, I guess --” He shrugs, clearly just as thrown by it as Zayn is.

“What’s it look like?” Zayn asks eventually, nodding towards Niall’s phone.

“Two weeks? Maybe? Here.” He fishes Zayn’s mobile out of the drawer and slides it over. A moment of panic seizes him as he watches it turn on. It’s been off for ages now, there’s no telling what’s waiting for him.

Loads of texts and missed calls, it turns out, mostly from people who don’t know where he is and want to find out. He doesn’t let himself look at any of them, goes straight for his calendar and matches it to Niall’s. He’s right, there’s nothing calling them home, at least not for a little while. The tension at the base of Zayn’s skull bleeds away.

He’s still staring at his phone when a new text comes through. _heyyyy its rainign here hope ur having a good time miss you :)_ Zayn’s eyebrows go up. Niall makes a ‘go ahead’ motion and Zayn hits call instead of reply.

“Zayn? Are you okay? What’s happened?” Liam sounds well-panicked.

“No, I’m fine. We’re fine. I just -- I got your text and I thought...” He doesn’t know what he thought. He takes a breath. “It’s raining here, too.”

Liam laughs and Zayn feels another fragmented piece of himself slot back into place. He leans heavily against the sink, knows he’s smiling like a nutter. “Oh Christ,” Liam says. “I thought one of you’d actually got arrested.”

“No.” Zayn snorts. “S’on Niall’s to do list, though.”

“So it’s good, then?” He can hear the worry creeping back into Liam’s voice. Funny how it’s not as upsetting now. 

“I’m learning to swim,” Zayn tells him. He feels strangely proud saying it out loud. He’s twenty-one years old, gloating about being able to doggy paddle in the ocean. Liam sounds suitably impressed, though, and Zayn feels happier just imagining the look on his face. “Yeah, who knows, this time next year I could be surfing with you.”

Niall starts laughing at the blatant lie. Zayn glares at him; he feels better having said it, so who cares if it’s not a hundred percent true. Niall takes advantage of Zayn’s distraction to steal the phone from him.

“I will not be surfin’ with you,” he tells Liam bluntly, “because I’d end up kneeless and stuck waiting for Zayn to rescue me and unless this surfing’s taking place in a paddling pool --”

Zayn punches him and tries to wrestle the phone away. “I hate you,” he hisses, trying to be quiet because Harry’s still asleep in the next room. It’s a right pain in the arse, talking in hushed voices and tiptoeing around, he realizes, suddenly overwhelmed with appreciation for Niall and Harry these past few weeks, with everyone for even longer. 

He can hear Liam’s faraway laughter, how he’s yelling at them both to be careful, that he has to go, he loves them. Zayn gets hold of the phone and sticks his tongue out, victorious. “We love you, too, yeah.”

“See you soon?” Liam asks, voice layered with too many emotions for Zayn to parse.

“Yeah. Couple more weeks. Not long.” Zayn smiles as he says it, looks up to find Niall’s grinning just as wide.

**

“So unless you have some fashionista event you can’t miss,” Niall tells Harry later, letting it hang in the air while the rain drives against the roof. They didn’t tell him about the phones, just that they’d talked it over and decided to stay awhile longer.

“No,” Harry says quickly, mouth quirked like he’s trying to hide how glad he is. “‘Sides, wouldn’t want to miss Zayn graduating from tadpole to minnow.” 

Zayn shoves him off the couch and doesn’t even feel bad for laughing when Harry ends up with a goose egg on his elbow. 

**

It’s still raining the next morning, off-and-on. 

“Make it stop,” Harry whines at breakfast, his face pressed between Zayn’s shoulders. 

Zayn swallows his eggs. “Zap. It’s sunny.” He looks to the window and shrugs. “Didn’t work, sorry.”

Harry moans pitifully and slumps into his chair. Zayn rolls his eyes. He tries poking Harry’s cheek, doesn’t expect it to work. 

“Think it’s ‘bout time for this to go, Harry,” he says, dragging his knuckle against his scruff. “Ya just look dirty now. You too.” He points at Niall with his fork. Niall gestures back with his middle finger.

“Nobody’s even gonna see,” Niall says. 

“I have to see. It‘s like livin’ with a couple of tramps.”

He thinks it’s mostly boredom that gets them to agree, but after breakfast they cram into the bathroom so Harry and Niall can say a proper goodbye to their vacation beards.

“Zayn’s right,” Harry says, his finger trailing down Niall’s jaw. “You’re a disaster.”

“‘Scuse you.” Niall leans close to the mirror, mouth screwed up as he rubs the shaving cream on. “‘m a fuckin’ masterpiece.”

Harry laughs and tries to touch Niall’s cheek again. Niall smacks his hand away and starts shaving while Harry lathers up. 

“What if I just leave the mustache?” Harry asks, turning to where Zayn’s perched on the lip of the tub, pouting when he shakes his head no. Niall snorts and Harry glares at him, jerks his elbow so it hits Niall’s. A spot of blood wells up on Niall’s chin. Harry doesn’t even try to look apologetic. “Oops.”

“What the fuck?” Niall sticks his shaving-cream covered finger in Harry’s ear, cackling when Harry jumps and swears. Zayn laughs, has to press his wrists against the cold porcelain of the tub when his heart swells with happiness. It’s too much. He feels like he’s waiting for the crash to come; it’s always right around the corner, ruining him when he thinks he’s made it into the clear.

“You look like you just drank some cocoa,” Niall says, face clean, laughing at Harry’s insistence that he should get to keep the mustache. “D’ya even need to shave? Have you tried usin’ a napkin since we got here?”

Harry smacks him with a palm full of shaving cream and something about the moment is so unbearably funny that Zayn cracks up, his whole body sliding backwards into the tub. He hasn’t laughed this hard in ages, feels like, and it’s overwhelming. He laughs until he can’t breathe and tears are blurring his vision. 

“We’ve lost Zayn,” Harry says, ends up with shaving cream in his mouth, Niall crowing victoriously. Zayn only laughs harder. It’s like dam has finally broken and every emotion is spilling out full-force. This is it, he realizes. He’s finally going mad. His throat goes raw as he laughs and cries at the same time. 

There’s a dull ache in his temples when he’s done. He feels wrung-out but better, inexplicably. Harry and Niall are still bickering, quieter now, both of them covered in shaving cream. At least Niall’s the only one bleeding, Zayn thinks as he hoists himself out of the tub. 

Harry catches him as he goes to squeeze past, pins Zayn between himself and Niall. Zayn lets him, wraps his arms around both of them and stares at their reflections in the mirror. His eyes are red-rimmed and bright and he’s somehow ended up with shaving cream in his eyebrow, on his cheek. He’s so glad they came here, owes them so much for this. He has no idea how he will ever -- could ever, really, repay them. The happiness swells again, a new kind of ache. When he sighs he swears he can feel the way their bodies both sag into his, like they’re relieved, too. 

After a beat, Harry slowly slaps him in the face with a new handful of shaving cream. It makes a mess, gets on his shirt, in his hair. Niall’s laugh is the loudest thing he’s heard in weeks.

“I'll kill you,” Zayn breathes out. Harry breaks into a run, his laughter a dead giveaway of the direction he's running.

**

“Do we have to toast _every_ time?” 

Niall pulls his bottle back from the the knot of their bodies. “It’s a celebration, Harry, of fuckin’ course we have to toast every time.” 

“Of fuckin’ course,” Zayn echoes, teasing. Once the rain’d stopped, Harry’d gone to market and come back with a bottle of guaro he’d gotten from one of his fisherman friends. “If we’re staying in Costa Rica, we’re drinking like Costa Ricans,” he said, before dumping an ungodly amount of liquor into each of their glasses, cutting it with pure lime juice. The first sip had burned all the way down, but that was hours ago, when Zayn still had tastebuds left. Now the shit beer they’ve switched to goes down easy, like water.

“Just a normal one, though, Niall,” Harry says. “Not some long-winded screed about living a long and happy life with your mum and fourteen kids.”

Zayn leans back while they bicker, shivers in the breeze. It’s cool out, would probably be colder if he wasn’t well on his way to pissed. Everything’s still damp from the storm, the sand wet and unforgiving. Zayn tucks his beer between his legs and starts constructing a tower, uses the edge of his bottlecap to etch bricks into its side. 

“Go!” he hears. When he looks up, they’re sprinting to the water’s edge, knocking into each other and shedding clothes as they go. Their laughter rings out in the darkness; if Zayn concentrates, he’s pretty sure he can feel it reverberating in his bones. It makes sense to follow them, to chase that feeling. He leaves his beer and shucks his clothes as he walks, keeps his pants on has he wades into the ocean. 

They cheer when they notice, Niall’s wolf whistle goes on for ages, echoing over and over as they swim back toward shore to meet him halfway. They hug him like proud parents, pissed enough to forget that neither of them is wearing pants anymore. 

“So grown up,” Niall says, his arm slung around Harry’s shoulder. He tugs at Zayn’s earlobe and grins.

Harry dabs at his own fake tears. “Happens so fast.”

He goes down easily when Zayn elbows him in the gut, pops back up sputtering, his hair plastered to his forehead and cheeks. 

“Run!” Niall yells, pushing Harry back under and grabbing at Zayn, trying to propel him forward without knocking him over. Zayn manages to make it back to shallower water before Harry catches him, taking him down with a shoulder in his back. Zayn lays there, gasping, while Harry groans and laughs next to him, Niall on his other side. Zayn closes his eyes and feels the earth dip and spin while the waves break against his knees, the water rushing up to his chest before it’s pulled back out again.

“It’s fuckin’ freezing,” Harry says after a minute. He sits up and Zayn can see the gooseflesh on his chest. He nudges them both, herding them out of the water with a quiet, “c’mon, I need another drink.”

They’re all shivering by the time they get inside. Harry pushes Niall in the direction of the stove. “Cheese toasties,” he says firmly and Zayn could kiss him, it’s such a brilliant idea. He’s suddenly starved, can barely remember what they had for dinner.

“Oi, stop pushing, you’re gettin’ me all sandy,” Niall complains. “I’ll make your damn sandwich, just a minute.”

Zayn goes to change his pants, leaves the wet ones hanging in the shower, and by the time he gets back, Niall’s got the frying pan out, bread and cheese all over the counters. Harry’s got a plate in his hands already, like he’s Oliver Twist waiting for it to be filled.

Niall’s probably too drunk for this, though, because he keeps dropping things, cursing under his breath. He manages to get Harry’s on his plate alright but when he’s flipping Zayn’s something happens and all of a sudden he’s _really_ cursing, pulling the frying pan off the flame before brushing past them and into the bathroom.

“Y’alright?” Harry yells after him, bits of melted cheese dripping out of his mouth. Zayn starts to follow Niall but thinks better of it, shuts off the stove first before going after him.

“Let me see,” he says, reaching for Niall’s wrist. He’s got his hand under the cool water, his lip caught in his teeth like it actually hurts.

“Harry’s gonna eat your sandwich.”

“Shut up,” Zayn says, and tugs his hand out from under the water. 

Harry stumbles in with his mouth full and says, “Here, drink some whiskey for the pain.” 

“That is not whiskey,” Niall says, sniffing the glass Harry’s handed him. He takes a sip anyway, immediately makes a disgusted face. “Oh, that is still vile. How did you drink so much of that, Haz?”

“I liked it,” Harry says, shrugging. He lands in the tub like he tripped, limbs splaying everywhere, boxers falling off his arse.

Zayn boosts himself up onto the edge of the sink, moves Niall so he’s sandwiched between his knees, his hand palm-up so Zayn can assess the damage. The burn is an angry red already. He traces the edge of it with his finger, blows on it carefully when Niall sucks in a breath through his teeth. Niall’s fingers curl up instinctively and his thumb slides across Zayn’s beard. 

Zayn leans into the touch for a second before clearing his throat and saying, “I think it’s gonna be fine.”

“The doctor is in!” Harry slurs from the tub.

“D’you want, like, a plaster?” Zayn asks Niall. He doesn’t mean to keep his voice low, it just happens. 

Niall curls his fingers like a test, looks down at his hand and then back at Zayn. “‘m okay. Thanks.” 

He steps back so Zayn can slide off the sink. Harry has all kinds of trouble getting out of the tub, he’s like a drunk spider, confused and desperate for traction. “Yikes,” he says, when he finally makes it out, “‘m beat.” He flops onto Zayn’s back, his whole body going limp. “Gimme a piggyback, m’legs don’t work anymore.”

Niall reaches past Zayn to pat Harry’s shoulder. “Night, Haz,” he says, as Zayn carries him past.

“Gonna rally,” Harry says, his mouth drooping against Zayn’s neck so it comes out muffled. He’s dead weight like this, not even trying to hold on. He’s still damp in parts, too, his hair sticking to Zayn’s cheek.

Zayn drops him onto his bed inelegantly, just turns and leans until Harry pitches sideways off his back and onto the sheets. Harry takes to it immediately, arms curling around his pillow, tucking it under his head. 

“Hey, c’mon, just let’s get your shirt off, yeah? And then you can go to sleep.”

Harry doesn’t sit up so much as goes boneless, laughing while Zayn tries to get him out of his shirt.

“Wanker,” Zayn says, once it’s off. He pinches Harry’s nipple for good measure before pitching the shirt on the floor. Harry settles himself under the sheets, probably sound asleep before Zayn even hits the light.

He finds Niall lying on the couch, arm hanging off the edge, mostly-empty beer dangling in his hand. Zayn stops in the doorway, feels antsy all sudden, in that bright space between sleepy-drunk and well-pissed. He wants to do something but he doesn’t know what, just that he _wants_.

“Okay?” Niall asks, tipping his head back over the armrest. Zayn nods and sits by Niall’s hip, reaches down to snag his beer and take a long pull. He hands it back and Niall sits up to finish it. Drops it and lets it roll across the floor when he’s done.

They sit there for a minute, Niall watching Zayn watch the empty bottle. There’s a buzzing at the back of Zayn’s skull, kinetic energy building up, waiting to be let out. He picks at the edge of the couch cushion, wishes he had a sharpie so he could draw something, anything, on Niall’s blank stomach. 

“Hey.” Niall taps Zayn’s chest, fingers curling into collar of Zayn’s shirt, waiting for Zayn to look at him. He takes a deep breath and this time, Zayn braces for whatever he’s about to say. “‘m really glad you’re here,” he says, thumb tapping an erratic beat on Zayn’s sternum. 

“Me too,” Zayn says quietly, fiercely. The air around him crackles. He touches the faded lines on Niall’s skin, finds that first smiley face and presses his fingertips to it. When he looks up again, Niall’s watching him intently, his eyes gone dark. It’s like a gravitational pull, drawing him in. He kisses Niall like they’re moving in slow motion, like they have all the time in the world. 

Niall’s still got his hand in Zayn’s collar, yanks at it until Zayn moves back and pulls his shirt off before ducking back into kiss him again. Zayn feels wide awake and half asleep at the same time; when he threads his hand through Niall’s hair, he’s surprised by how soft it is. He tugs, just a little, and Niall gasps, his mouth falling open.

“Sorry,” Zayn says, pulling back, his fingers rubbing Niall’s scalp. 

“No, s’alright. Liked it.” He leans back, pulls Zayn with him, shifts so they’re fitted together. This time, when he pulls Niall’s hair, he’s ready for it, licks into Niall’s mouth, tastes the beer and lime and liquor. Salt water and sea air and Niall. 

“S’okay, yeah?” Niall asks, arm coming up to cover the Perrie tattoo, pulling Zayn closer to him. Zayn laughs against Niall’s mouth, murmurs “yeah, yeah,” and kisses him harder, hopes Niall doesn’t notice the tears pricking at his eyes. He hasn’t kissed anyone new in a long time and it’s just. It’s a lot. 

Niall keeps kissing him, hips rocking slow against Zayn’s. It’s like a dream, like floating. Zayn loses all sense of time, loses all sense of everything but Niall’s hands on his skin, Niall’s mouth on his. Niall presses his palm against Zayn’s side and the burn is so hot Zayn arches his back and gasps a little bit. Niall laughs, deep and throaty, and Zayn bites at the curve of his neck in retaliation, sucks a mark there until Niall’s the one arching and gasping.

He groans when Niall pushes down his pants, lifts his hips so he can shove his own down too. It’s too much, Zayn feels warm all over, has been right on the edge for so long. He comes almost as soon as Niall touches him, sparks gathering at the base of his spine, all his synapses firing too bright.

“Here,” he says, trying to catch his breath, twisting so he can brace his weight and get a hand between them. 

“No, hang on, m’close” Niall grits out, his voice low, accent thick. He holds Zayn in place with one arm, rocks his hips into him. Still breathless, Zayn traces his tongue over the red mark already appearing on Niall’s neck, tugs his hair gently and smiles into his skin when Niall comes with a groan.

Niall keeps kissing Zayn slowly, doesn’t stop until they’re both basically asleep on the couch. Zayn’s spent, his limbs like jelly, heavy with the good kind of exhaustion. He ducks his head, noses at Niall’s collarbone, smiles when Niall twitches at the drag of Zayn’s beard against his skin. Acting like it’s a huge effort, Niall fishes Zayn’s shirt off the floor, wipes up the mess between them before dropping it again. 

“Least stuff it under the couch,” Zayn says, nose wrinkled as he tugs up his pants. “Don’t wanna step on it in the morning.” 

He settles on top of Niall again, mindful of his knee. He feels Niall chuckle, feels the pull of his muscles as he reaches over the side of the couch to move the shirt. “Better?” 

Zayn shrugs, turns his face into Niall’s chest. “Thanks,” he says, means for more than just the shirt. Trusts Niall understands. Niall hums, his thumb sliding down Zayn’s spine, settles his hand low on Zayn’s back. Zayn falls asleep before their breathing syncs up, but only just.

*****

When Harry opens his eyes in the morning, it’s so quiet in the house that he can hear the waves breaking outside down the beach in time with the pounding in his head. He’s halfway through thinking about how that’s almost poetic when he realizes that if it’s so quiet, then Niall is definitely not awake. Which means there is no breakfast. Which is _absolute shit_. Sitting up slowly, Harry shakes his head experimentally and runs his hand through his hair, testing out the extent of his hangover. He regrets it immediately.

“This will not do,” he mumbles to himself as he stands, forcing himself to remain upright as he picks his way through the mess on the floor, noticing the shirt he was mostly wearing last night. He wonders, briefly, if he did that or if the lads stripped him off before putting him to bed like a couple of hens. Both options are plausible.

He’s mildly surprised when he peeks into Niall’s room and Niall isn’t passed out in there and snoring with his knees elevated using some contraption engineered out of pillows, even more so when Zayn’s bed is empty and already made. Turning the corner, Harry stops when he sees the two of them tangled on the sofa, Zayn sprawled on top of Niall with his face out of sight, head turned into Niall’s chest. 

“Right then,” Harry says, banging his shin on the low end table as he walks to where Zayn and Niall are, hopping at the sting and tripping over a beer bottle on his way down, landing on top of them hard. Not exactly the elegant drape Harry was planning. 

“Fuuuuu-” comes the groan from Niall somewhere beneath Zayn, “‘m dyin’.” To the best of Harry’s assessment, Zayn doesn’t even move, the sharp jut of his shoulder blade digging into Harry’s stomach in time with the even rhythm of his breathing.

“I need eggs,” Harry says, hearing just how hungover hoarse his voice sounds. Maybe this is it, maybe these two weeks have done him in. Living too hard. Relaxing even harder. “Eggs,” he says again, “Niall, _eggs_.”

“I’m trapped,” is Niall’s muffled reply, and Harry knows that he should probably get up but down is so much better than up right now. And Zayn is warm underneath him, and the pain of Zayn’s shoulder blade pressing into him is proving to be a comforting distraction from the mess happening within his head. Plus, all the exasperated swearing Niall’s ineffectually interjecting every couple of seconds is really fucking hilarious. Harry’s not sure when he closes his eyes exactly, but then Niall’s hand is slapping at his side, hard.

“Bastard,” Niall is whispering now, in that same tone they all use whenever Zayn is sleeping, in that same tone they’ve all been using even when Zayn is awake, since the break up. Harry realizes suddenly that he and Niall have been using it a lot less, since they’ve been here. 

“Niall,” he starts, forcing his tone to fit and match, trying to slap away Niall’s hand.

“Arsing piece of cunt,” Niall’s whispering somehow makes his accent even thicker, “‘ve got two seconds left o’ breath in me lungs here, and I think Zayn’s dead.”

“Alright alright,” Harry relents, easing himself off of Zayn and trying not to laugh at Niall’s immediate sigh of relief. They’re all pretty talented at not waking Zayn up, so Harry places a firm hand on Zayn’s shoulder, lifting him slightly so Niall can roll out from under him, cursing as he hits the floor. “Piece of cunt, Niall? That sounds degrading. And disgusting.”

“Good,” Niall sounds out of breath, his hair standing out spectacularly from his head when he stands up, “‘cuz I meant it to be that way.”

“Oh, _Niall_ ,” Harry stretches, looking down slightly at Niall. The oddest thing about Niall’s hair being so dark is how fair his skin looks, even with the slight sunburn that’s finally fading into a tan. Makes things stand out, like. Dropping his arms to his sides, Harry steps toward Niall to examine the mark standing out dark red on his neck. It looks-

“You have something, there,” Harry says, reaching out to touch what looks like a bite, right where his shoulder meets his neck. Niall immediately brushes his hand away, flushing a dark red that almost cancels out the mark, makes Harry wonder if he’s seeing things.

“How d’you want your eggs?” Niall asks, clearing his throat and turning toward the kitchen, running his hands through his hair and shuffling off before Harry can answer, chasing after him. 

“Scrambled, like my head,” Harry waits for Niall to laugh, and is rewarded when he does, grabbing his Chef Nialler apron and slipping it over his head. Harry settles on one of the stools at the counter, laying his head down on the cool marble there.

“Sounds good.” Niall opens and closes what sounds like every cupboard in the kitchen, “could use about a dozen or so, myself. We really lost the plot last night. Up late.” He doesn’t say any more, and Harry thinks again about the mark, sitting up to watch Niall work with “COCK” still faint red on his back, Zayn’s rendering of a rooster underneath. It must be another new one, Harry surmises, because it’s still unfaded, dark marker against Niall’s skin. If he wasn’t so hungover, Harry would laugh. 

“So,” Harry starts, before realizing he doesn’t have anything to say, not really, shaking his head when Niall pauses to look over at him, eyebrows raised. Shrugging, Niall gets back to his cooking nonsense.

He’s fixated, but Harry can’t stop himself from thinking about it again, watching the muscles in Niall’s forearm work as he beats some eggs in a bowl, all of Zayn’s random drawings straining against the movement. The mark. It could be anything, but Harry also knows what it really could be, and he also feels like he’s far too battered right now to think about it, and why it makes his thoughts muddled. He wants clarity. And eggs. So many eggs. He presses his forehead to the counter this time, breathing in evenly while Niall starts humming. He’d be annoyed, but Niall never hums in melodies or songs. It’s always soothing chord progressions, which is really fucking fantastic right now, actually. 

“Haz,” Niall’s voice cuts through Harry’s half awake haze, and Harry sits up, watches Niall gesture at him with the spatula. “Go wake ‘im up, right? Just about done. Ah,” he shakes his head when Harry opens his mouth to protest, “if I did this, you have the hard job.”

“Fair,” Harry feels like he’s out in the ocean waiting for Zayn to figure out his next stroke, slowly moving through water as he walks out to the other room, leaning down and dragging his fingertips down Zayn’s spine. 

“No,” Zayn’s voice is flat, but he’s _speaking_ , so Harry’s already won. If Zayn speaks and is not just laying motionless, then it’s so much easier. “No,” Zayn repeats, but at least he turns his head slightly to squint up at Harry this time.

“C’mon, Niall made eggs,” Harry pokes at the snake on Zayn’s shoulder, jumping out of the way when Zayn tries to grab at him. “C’mon,” Harry fights the urge to flop down in the chair, knowing that he won’t get up for many, many hours. 

“You lads better shake a leg,” Niall’s voice drifts out from the kitchen, “because I’m not slaving away for nothin’.” 

“Comin’,” Zayn yells out, surprising Harry when he sits up, eyes bleary and hair falling over his forehead into his eyes. “I’m starving.”

“Yeah, starving,” Harry echoes, half-heartedly poking at Zayn’s back as he follows him into the kitchen. 

“Ah, I was wonderin’ if you’d be joining us,” Niall grins over at Zayn, handing both of them plates. 

“Yeah, alright,” Zayn takes a bite of toast, leaning against the sink and shaking his head. “Your hand, eh? How’s it feeling?”

“Barely notice it,” Niall grins, forking up a mouthful of eggs and holding out his hand, the pink slash bright on his palm. _Right_ , Harry thinks, his burn. It all seems like it happened a long time ago, not last night. It’s like a whole tour of ups and downs went past in just a few hours, everything shifting. 

They eat in silence, the eggs tasting better than anything Harry’s had in ages. But it’s still - he wishes he could figure out why everything feels different, like two more weeks is suddenly a really long time. 

**

Harry normally prefers to just jump in the shower regardless of temperature to play the odds, but in this instance he’s feeling, as Niall so kindly put it when Harry declined to help with the dishes after breakfast, “like a delicate little girl,” so he stands there while the water heats up, leaning against the towel rack and watching his reflection slowly steam over. He’s a little shocked that they didn’t put up more of a fight, Zayn saying it was alright, he’d take care of it if Niall made dinner that night to celebrate their extended stay, Niall laughing and saying he was being exploited. Harry was able to back out of the kitchen and escape to the bathroom while they were arguing over how Zayn was missing all the really dirty bits, what did his mother even teach him? 

He’s totally obscured to his own eyes when he finally steps in, wincing at how hot it is. He gets used to it pretty fast though, adjusting the shower head so he can stand fully under the spray with his head down, watching the water drip through his hair while it hangs in his eyes as he slowly wakes up. Washing himself, he briefly thinks about having a quick wank but dismisses the thought, wondering if he’s getting sick or something dreadful because really, when does he ever not want to do that? 

Either way.

Looking down, Harry assesses the robot on his leg, twisting his calf around and swiping at it experimentally with the facecloth to see what would happen. Absolutely nothing, apparently, the skin just turning red the harder he rubs at it, twisted over himself a bit like he’s doing yoga. He’s not sure exactly why he wants to get rid of it, but he suddenly does, scrubbing harder until the skin is red and stinging. Except, it fails to do anything at all to the little robot. If anything, it looks darker. Fucker.

Harry starts laughing at the ridiculousness of it all, rinsing his hair again and rubbing at his face. _Such a twat,_ he thinks to himself. Judging by the human canvas Niall’s become, it’ll start to fade slightly anyway. Eventually. 

Turning off the shower and stepping out of the tub, Harry swipes at himself with a towel, shaking out his head and splashing the mirror with the spray from his hair, pausing to watch the drops race to the bottom. He’s going to end up in the water soon enough, so there’s no point in doing anything other than tossing the towel on the floor, knowing full well Zayn or Niall will yell at him about it later, and strolling naked across the hallway to his room. 

“What shall it be today?” He asks himself, plucking a pair of light blue swim trunks from the top of the dresser and easing them on before glancing at himself in the mirror. Good enough. 

Stumbling out past the semi-clean kitchen and out into the hot sun, Harry grimaces, wishing he had thought to grab his sunglasses. Neither of the lads are lying about in the hammock or any of the loungers, and Harry can feel the unshakable hesitance settle over him again. It’s bright and warm with a light breeze coming off of the water, and Harry doesn’t try to fight it, feeling himself start to scowl when he finally comes up to where Zayn is stretched out on a towel in the sand not too far from the shoreline, shading his eyes with his forearm. The book he’s been reading off and on is tucked next to his side, and Harry has that terrible urge, that feeling like he wants to punch something.

“Oi,” Zayn mumbles, laughing when Harry kicks some sand over his stomach, “don’t be a dick.” 

Harry doesn’t reply, staring down at Zayn and looking for...he’s not sure what, but he’s not seeing anything other than usual Zayn, all dark tattoos and defined bone structure and smooth tanned skin. Zayn moves his arm and stares up at Harry then, his eyes looking huge behind his glasses, settling first on the still red area on Harry’s leg before traveling up to the absolute shit look that Harry knows is on his face at the moment. He feels unsettled and fidgety as Zayn does so, wants to run around in circles until he collapses. Zayn still doesn’t say anything, just stares.

“WHAT?” Harry finally ask-yells, his voice coming out much sharper than he means. He’s not sure what he expects Zayn to do, but a small part of him is pleased when Zayn sits up then, sighing and leaning forward on his knees.

“Niall’s waitin’ for ya,” he says, sounding tired again, “out there.” He tilts his head toward the water and sighs again, shaking his head. It gives Harry pause, for a brief second. Looking out in the direction Zayn’s pointing, he sees Niall now, his dark head popping up over the water as he’s swimming. 

“Right,” Harry says, and he skims his hand over the top of Zayn’s head as he walks away from him, wishing he could shake this feeling. Maybe this place is too much of a good thing now that they’ve all settled into it, or maybe the dynamic is off without the other lads. Or maybe it’s too much, with just the three of them. Harry’s running out of maybes, his heart beating erratically as he swims out toward where Niall is, wondering if Zayn is already asleep back on the beach. 

“HAROLD STYLES!” Niall yells once Harry is within earshot, treading water still far enough away from Niall, not even sure if he wants to be anything other than alone at that moment. “BEEN WAITIN’ FOR YA.”

“Congratulations,” Harry hears himself say, knowing that at this point he really does sound like a sanctimonious twat. Niall laughs at that, just like Harry knew he would, swimming a little closer to where Harry is since Harry is refusing to move, still treading water.

“Feels good today, ya know?” Niall’s swimming around him now, causing the water to churn around Harry’s chest. Like he’s splashing him without even trying. “Knowin’ we’ve got all the more time. Like it. ‘tis good for us.”

“I suppose,” is what Harry replies, before waiting for a break in Niall’s turns and swimming away from him, foot hitting Niall solidly in what Harry guesses is his arm. Niall sputters and chases after him immediately, hand closing over Harry’s foot and yanking hard before surging ahead, a small wave of the warm water landing full in Harry’s face. 

It becomes a game quickly enough, Harry not sure when it changed from honestly wanting to get away from Niall to swimming just fast enough for Niall to almost catch him before pushing a splash of water in his face, the two of them kicking at each other and swimming in circles until Harry’s breathless, his arms and legs feeling almost numb. 

“Time out,” Harry says, stopping short with Niall crashing into him from behind, a mess of limbs that has Harry wondering if he’s somehow grown more legs, or something. Like a big Irish spider. He struggles a bit ineffectually against Niall’s grasp before giving up, the two of them half floating and half kicking to keep themselves from going under.

“Was that so hard?” Niall asks, laughing before grabbing Harry’s face in his hands and placing a smacking kiss to his cheek, his aim off as he half gets Harry’s mouth. Everything within Harry bottoms out, just for a brief second, and then Niall’s laughing again, kissing him with purpose this time. 

_This is unexpected_ , is what Harry says to himself, but he knows that it’s more than half of a lie, that the thing is everything’s always almost something with the lads. That they’re all so close, that they’re the only ones who ever understand. Even when Harry doesn’t understand himself. That they’ve been here for two weeks and he doesn’t know if he feels better or worse, but it might not even matter because he’s feeling something, even if he doesn’t know what he wants.

He feels better, he’s pretty sure. 

Niall pulls back for a second and presses their foreheads together, breathing heavy into Harry’s mouth as their feet kick in rhythm. Harry feels like he might float away from Niall at any second, so he fits his hand over Niall’s neck so that won’t happen, kissing him back carefully at first. When Niall responds by pressing his hand into Harry’s back and deepening the kiss, their hips bumping together, Harry feels like his mind is on overload with everything, trying to keep them afloat and trying to kiss Niall again. They both lose grip on the balance for a moment, bobbing down so a little water gets into Harry’s mouth.

“Shit,” Harry coughs, Niall laughing and following suit, looking like he’s about to say something more but then Harry pulls him close again, running his tongue along the seam of Niall’s lips, their noses bumping together awkwardly. Harry feels like he’s lost all his finesse. He just wants. 

Niall’s pressed against him, half laughing. Niall’s tongue is in his mouth. Harry takes a guess and can’t help himself, slotting his thumb over the bruise on Niall’s neck that he can’t stop thinking about, pressing down. The immediate reaction of Niall gasping into his mouth, gooseflesh blooming on his skin under Harry’s fingertips, causes such a rush of adrenaline that Harry can’t take it anymore, kissing Niall once, then once more again before sweeping his legs and dunking him fully under the water. He’s not sure how he can still get his limbs to work and swim away, but he does, Niall yelling behind him, expecting him to attempt drowning him in return. Instead, Niall just laughs, pulling hard on Harry’s leg until they’re tangled together again.

“I think,” Niall starts, then looks down at Harry’s mouth briefly, kissing him again, “that we should really commit to underwater Zayn.” He winks then, swimming off before Harry can formulate any thoughts with what brain cells he has remaining. 

Unsure, Harry turns to look at the beach. Zayn’s sitting there, hands shaded over his eyes, watching. It’s so far away that Harry doesn’t think it’s possible, but Zayn raises a hand, like a half wave. In case he can see him, really see him, Harry waves back. 

Niall’s splashing in the shallows now on his way back up to the beach, yelling something to Zayn about how he’s gonna shake off the ocean on him like a dog, and Harry floats, eyes closed against the sunlight with his thoughts swimming. He decides to call what he’s feeling relief. 

**

Harry’s not sure how long he stayed out in the water, lazily swimming in circles and thinking about how Niall felt against him, but by the time he’s walking back up on the beach Zayn is fully awake, sitting cross-legged next to a sprawled out Niall, who’s got his sunglasses on. Zayn’s fingers are tucked under the waistband of Niall’s shorts, holding them away from his hip as he works out some detailed design. 

“You weren’t half joking when you said it was gonna tickle,” Niall’s saying when Harry gets close enough to hear, “‘m dying.” 

“Bit more,” Zayn replies, and Harry stops just behind him, not wanting to ruin Zayn’s light as he slides the tip of the marker just under Niall’s hipbone. “Working it out, yeah?”

“Looks good,” Harry says, and neither of them look up, Zayn shifting a little bit to rest his back fully against Harry’s legs, Niall raising his hand in a thumbs up before squirming slightly.

“Work it out faster, mate.” Niall’s hand hovers over where Zayn’s head is, reaching, “Harry, help a lad out.”

Harry swats at Niall’s hand, trying to tether himself to everything, trying to focus on everything that’s good. 

**

“I’m not wearing that, mate.” Zayn is remaining firm, scowling at the apron Harry’s holding up for him. 

“I know you love this shirt of mine, it’s your favorite shirt.” To commemorate their extended stay, Harry had floated the idea of a sober dinner, a sober night - the fact that even Niall had agreed immediately says a lot about just how much they’ve been going off the rails in the name of healing lately. And even though he and Zayn are just supposed to be helping Niall, Harry had still taken two of his shirts already partially sacrificed for bandanas to make them both, well...it’s a close approximation of what an apron might look like. 

“Suit yourself, but I’m just going to leave it. Right here. Just in case. In case you want to wear it.” Harry sets it on the table they just cleared in the small dining nook off of the kitchen, winking before heading off to see how Niall’s doing, since there’s a lot of loud bangs and some random Costa Rican radio station sounds going on at the moment. 

“Niall,” Harry starts, before focusing on what’s in Niall’s hand. “Why are you _drinking a lager_? What part of sober do you not understand?” 

“It’s one,” Niall shrugs, “that’s within the sober, you know, range. Loosens me up, for cookin’.”

“I think my headache is coming back,” Harry raises his voice, “now that I know Niall is DRINKING on SOBER night.”

“Don’t care,” comes Zayn’s voice, echoing out from the other room, and Niall grins and raises his eyebrows, offering a bottle to Harry.

“Well, I suppose one isn’t really anything,” Harry relents, partially because he can feel that tension creeping back up, especially when Niall’s fingers brush against his when he hands him the bottle. Clearing his throat, he looks at what’s laid out on the counter, noticing-

“And what is this?” Harry holds up the bag of marijuana, leaning on the counter and looking over at Niall.

“Listen, don’t send me t’ the market if you don’t want me to pick up things we are running low on,” Niall shrugs, grabbing the bag and tossing it over past the fish Harry had picked up from his new fishing buddies Carlos and Miguel earlier. “It’s not for tonight.”

“Alright.” Harry knows when to pick his battles usually, can see this won’t go anywhere. Plus, he figures, glancing up when Zayn wanders into the kitchen wearing the apron shirt, hand resting on Niall’s shoulder for what seems like a solid minute to Harry before taking a stack of plates and cutlery out with him again, they’ll probably need it come tomorrow. 

He takes a deep breath, grabbing Niall for a second to salsa to the radio in the small kitchen area, spinning them around until they bump into the fridge.

“Enough,” Niall laughs, “and cut up this onion for me, you’re loads better at crying.”

“Ha,” Harry does it anyway, humming along and handing Niall what he needs as they work without speaking, Niall’s hands brushing against him every so often when he’s reaching for things. It’s nice. Finishing up the salad, Harry realizes that Niall isn’t there anymore, so he carries the bowl out to the dining nook. Zayn’s set the table in that careful way he has, sitting at one end while Niall fusses with the napkins he’s trying to fold.

“Harry,” Niall says, “did y’know that the Queen is coming to dinner? Look at this, it’s so posh. Why isn’t it a swan, Zayn? Not feeling as fancy, are we? This isn’t even up to snuff for the baby.”

“Fuck off,” Zayn says, but he’s laughing now, elbowing at Niall when Niall messes about with the crease he’s trying to perfect. It’s so frustratingly normal to Harry, and yet he feels frozen, stuck to the spot. 

“Forgot the carrots,” he supplies ineffectually when Niall gives him a questioning look, so Harry knows that he must be pulling some sort of face. “Be back.”

Setting the bowl he still has in his hands on the counter, Harry grabs a carrot and cuts it quickly, just to have something to do with this hands. He can’t hear them laughing anymore, it’s so quiet, the quiet pounding in each of his temples.

Taking a deep breath to get his shit together, Harry walks back in and Niall’s got his hand on Zayn’s shoulder, quietly asking him if he’s okay. When Zayn nods, exhaling this shaky breath, Niall looks up and catches Harry’s eye, mouths _Perrie_ , _CARROTS_ in this really exaggerated way, and Harry gets it. He has this vague memory of Perrie having some weird story about carrots, or it was something she hated? It’s not like he can ask. Harry feels like an absolute shit.

Like he’s just not plugged in, maybe. Harry knows, he _knows_ the lads, but this last tour changed them all a bit, like they’re spending more time apart and less time just...together. But looking at Niall and Zayn now, he wonders if maybe it’s just him, if maybe there still is this whole next level of things that he could know and could be, but for whatever reason he doesn’t. He isn’t. He doesn’t want to change anything about his life, he doesn’t. And he needs them in his life. It’s just. A lot. 

Pushing it down again, Harry walks over to where they’re standing, Niall’s hand still on Zayn’s shoulder. Harry palms the back of Zayn’s neck, moves his hand to walk his fingers up and down the top of Zayn’s spine. 

“Table looks real posh, Zayn,” he says, Niall humming in agreement, “I feel like royalty.”

“Casual royalty,” Niall supplies, winking over at Harry.

“Now both of you can fuck off,” Zayn replies after a moment, but Harry thinks he can hear a half smile in his voice.

**

“This should be the end of it,” Zayn sets a pot next to Harry’s elbow as he’s rinsing off the last plate in the sink, cursing the fact that he failed to check if this house had a dishwasher before he booked. 

“Yeah,” Harry hands him the plate, glances down at Zayn’s fingers as he does, “maybe you should be washing, not drying. Get rid of those smudges.” At this point, Zayn’s fingertips are mostly black, stained from all the detail work he’s been doing on Niall the past couple of weeks.

“Oh,” Zayn places the plate on the counter, glances down at his hands, rubbing them on the towel. “Dunno. I like it.”

“Fair enough.” Harry shrugs, forcing himself to keep his voice neutral despite the creeping feeling welling up within his chest. “This would go so much faster with three people.”

“Didn’t you hear?” Zayn laughs, “chefs don’t do dishes, mate.” 

“All I can hear now is that out of tune guitar,” Harry forces out a laugh. “Why won’t he just tune it properly?” Niall had fucked off after dinner, well, fucked off after they sat around the table for a bit afterward, having easy conversation that made Harry think he was being a giant arsehole earlier. But now all he can hear is Niall making up songs out in the other room, and Zayn. And. 

“Hey,” Zayn’s crowding in his space now, crowding Harry in a little, “you’re good, yeah?” 

“Hmm,” Harry can’t do anything but nod, and when he does Zayn is so close that he can feel Zayn’s vacation beard brush against his cheek. Zayn moves then, wrapping his arm around Harry’s waist and squeezing once, pressing his lips lightly to Harry’s shoulder. Harry’s not sure how long they stand there like that, but when he turns his head, his lips brush Zayn’s forehead. And all he can hear is Zayn’s breathing, slightly ragged, and the guitar drifting in from the other room.

Moving his hand into the water in the sink, Harry half-heartedly slaps Zayn on the cheek, jumping back when Zayn starts to sputter. 

“Don’t even,” Harry points at him, glad the tension is broken, “you can swim now, Zayn.”

Zayn doesn’t say anything in return, just lunges for the sprayer, blasting Harry in the face once before Harry’s able to knock it down, out of his hand.

“I’m not nearly drunk enough for watersports, Malik,” Harry whispers, feeling a laugh bubble up in his throat. Zayn stares at him open mouthed for a full second before starting to laugh, this deep, loud laugh that makes Harry’s stomach hurt, all the way down to his toes. He swallows, hard. Throws a towel at Zayn. “Get mopping.” Shrugging, Zayn does, still chuckling to himself. 

It gives Harry a second to collect himself while he finishes up with the sink, almost done when Zayn’s crowding him again, this time flush against his back, his breath hot on the back of Harry’s neck. Harry braces his palms flat on the side of the sink for a moment, turning slowly then with the limited room, hands coming to rest on Zayn’s sides. 

Zayn’s shirt is damp under his palms, the counter hard against his back. He only had two beers with dinner, and yet he feels drunk, clouded over. It’s like earlier on the beach, Zayn not saying a word and just staring him down, his eyes clear and dark. Gathering the sides of Zayn’s shirt in his fists, Harry can’t hear anything but Niall’s guitar playing, undercutting everything. It’s probably only a minute before Zayn tips back his head to speak, even though it feels like hours. Days. 

“Nothin’s changed,” is what he says. And Harry knows, he knows what Zayn is trying to say. That he’s reassuring him about whatever this is, this thing he’s feeling. What they’re all feeling. And it feels so fucked up, fucked over up and sideways and back. Because...Zayn is the one dealing with real stuff, right? Not just being burnt out. Not just being...this indescribable thing.

Harry hears himself laugh, and it sounds hollow. And he wishes that Zayn wasn’t right there, that it would be easier to ignore how he frowns then. How he leans forward really close, so close that Harry sucks in a breath, involuntarily.

“It’s gonna be okay, Haz,” he murmurs, in a voice that makes Harry think it might not. 

When he walks away then, pulling slightly so Harry releases his shirt from his death grip, Harry slumps back against the counter, certain there’s going to be a straight line welt across his back from pressing into it so hard. He waits, waits to see if Niall will stop playing when Zayn reaches the other room, but he doesn’t. There’s no silence, no change. 

Taking a deep breath, Harry wipes down the counter one last time, tossing the towel in the sink and walking into the sitting room. Niall’s sprawled out on the couch and taking up all the space, looking like he’s half asleep as he plucks his fingers across the strings in short, staccato bursts. 

Zayn’s in the window seat, watching the water. He doesn’t look up. 

Collapsing into the chair, Harry curls about with his legs tucked under himself. Closing his eyes, he wonders if he’ll be able to sleep.

**

It’s dark when Harry opens his eyes again, everything silvery in the moonlight slanting in through the windows, Niall leaning over him. 

“Har,” Niall’s saying, “c’mon, you’ll have a death backache if you sleep here. C’mon.”

Harry doesn’t say a word, just lets Niall help him unfold himself, leans on him heavily as Niall leads him down the hall. There’s a thin sliver of bright light under the bathroom door, and Harry knows that Zayn’s in there, probably going through his complicated nightly face washing ritual. 

“Y’know,” Harry says, feeling like he might still be half asleep, “with his beard, one would think it would take _less_ time to wash one’s face.”

“Yeah,” Niall laughs, “Sure. One would.”

If it was Liam, or even Louis on days when he’s not feeling peevish, Harry would be put to bed carefully, but this is Niall, so the second Harry hits the sheets, Niall’s already dragging the blanket up over him. He leans over, and for a brief moment Harry’s sure he’s going to kiss him goodnight, maybe. Harry thinks he’d quite like it. Maybe. 

“G’night, Harry,” is what Niall says instead though, calloused fingertips pushing back Harry’s fringe and tapping along his hairline. He switches off the lamp before he leaves, and it’s so dark then. So quiet. 

**

When Harry wakes up again it’s still dark, dark enough that he knows it’s still the middle of the night. Staring up at the ceiling, he tries to sort through all of the feelings churning through his mind, but the only thing he can come up with is that he just, he feels really alone. Which is fucked, honestly, because he spent so much time on the last leg of the tour wishing he _could_ be alone, the last few weeks on the bus with Zayn (and then Niall, surprisingly), coming close enough.

And now the same thing is making him feel...alone. Or maybe he’s just tired. He hasn’t been sleeping as much as the other two. Easing himself over to the side of the bed, Harry swings his legs down until his feet touch the floor, wiggling his toes in the rug and trying to decide what to do.

Which apparently is stumbling across the hall and climbing carefully into bed next to a sleeping Zayn. Zayn, who can sleep anywhere under any conditions, has his window open so there’s a breeze blowing in through the screen, the moonlight causing his eyelashes to cast faint shadows on his cheeks. 

Harry looks at him for a moment, really looks like he can’t during the day. Zayn looks better, a little less thin. A little less like he’s in the middle of fighting in a war, broken into pieces. 

Harry feels like shit. He holds his breath for five seconds, just long enough to even himself out and sync up with Zayn’s slow, regular breathing. 

**

Even though the beach feels a few degrees cooler so early in the morning, the sand cool under his feet, the water is still warm and calm, Harry swimming not too far out and feeling a bit more rested. 

It’s nice, watching the sun finish its rise. It’s also nice to be out swimming with his sunglasses on without Niall taking the piss. He swims for what he hopes is hours, swims until his legs feel like they don’t belong to his body anymore, until the sun starts to get brighter. He swims probably too long, since when he tries to walk up the beach, it’s like forcing his legs to walk through cement. 

“Early bird!” Niall’s running up to him then, engaging in some complicated handshake ritual that Harry knows he’s making up as he goes along, finally just exploding a fist bump off of the side of Harry’s head. “You eat breakfast? Zayn and I just had a little something. More like lunch, though. And look, I found a football! Siiiick.” Harry looks down at the football Niall must have been chasing after before Niall turns and kicks it toward Zayn, who’s standing with his arms crossed, shaking his head. 

“I said I’d do swim lesson, or football.” Zayn calls out, Harry following Niall in his direction. “Not both.”

“Where is your sense of adventure?” Niall kicks the football again when he’s close enough, Harry watching it sail down the beach and bounce along the sand.

“Where is your sense of a simple either/or statement?”

“Either you kick it about, or you’re a bastard. How’s that?”

“No.”

“Don’t you mean, no _either/or_ no?”

“Okay,” Harry finally intervenes, using his sunglasses to anchor his hair off of his face. “You’re both being ridiculous.”

“ _You’re_ being ridiculous,” Niall intones in a mocking voice, putting his hands on his hips. 

“ _Fucking hell_ , Niall.” Harry sighs, feeling the after effects of his long swim slipping away. “Can we just, I don’t know. Can we just do the lesson? Please?”

Niall’s staring at him now, and Harry knows that he must barely be holding it together at this point. He feels shaky. Tired and out of control. He doesn’t think he’s seen Niall’s eyes look so big before. He doesn’t look at Zayn. Can’t.

“Yeah,” Niall nods, his voice low, “we can do it. Right, Zayn?” When Zayn nods somewhere in Harry’s peripheral vision, Niall reaches out and squeezes Harry’s shoulder, once. “Cheers. I’ll go get the football, then.”

He walks down the beach, and it’s then that Harry notices he’s limping, slightly. Brilliant.

“He needs to take better care of that leg,” Zayn says quietly, breaking the silence.

“Right.” Harry nods, wanting both to stop talking about Niall’s bloody knee and only talk about that with Zayn for the rest of the trip. Whether they think surgery is an option. If they'll have to amputate. Anything.

“So,” Zayn’s voice changes tone completely, so much so that Harry finally looks in his direction, Zayn squinting over at him in the sunlight. “Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why’d you leave without sayin’ anything?” Zayn looks away then, for a brief moment, and Harry’s breath catches. It was early morning already when Harry woke up, and he thought Zayn was asleep. Thought that he hadn’t moved. That he didn't know.

Harry shrugs. “I didn’t know how to stay,” he mumbles, figuring that’s the closest to the truth. Zayn meets his eyes, blinking slowly.

“Oh.” Zayn’s staring at him again, frowning. 

“FORE!” Niall yells, and the ball sails between Harry and Zayn, knocking off the back wall of the house. “Nailed that one. Alright, Harry?” 

“Sure.” Harry doesn’t look at either of them, can’t look. “I’ll go chuck it in the house, then.” 

As he jogs up to the house, he can hear Niall start to ask Zayn something. Thinks he can hear his name. He hums to himself, tuning them out. 

**

By the time Harry gets back outside they’re already down in the water, Niall splashing about in the shallows and explaining something to Zayn with exaggerated hand gestures while Zayn nods seriously, treading water carefully a touch further out. Harry takes his time walking toward them, half counting the steps in his head. Even after Zayn sees him. Even after Niall turns, yelling some nonsense that Harry can’t make out entirely. Not that he’s trying. 

He slows down even further, because even though he knows he needs to do this, a part of him doesn’t know if he can. He’s not used to feeling so out of control of himself when there’s no one around but him, really, to tell him what to do. He doesn’t know what to do. He doesn’t know what he wants. He doesn’t know why. 

He takes so long that Zayn’s already ducked his head under a few times, Niall probably telling him to test it out. And Zayn, he looks so calm, not hesitant. It’s reassuring to Harry, in an abstract way he cannot even begin to define.

“You seeing this, Harry?” Niall asks when Harry starts to wade into the water, stopping when he’s chest deep. “Like a fish, this one.”

Zayn makes a face. “Wouldn’t want to be a fish.” 

“Not the kind that are _fished_ Zayn,” Niall pushes himself out so he’s next to Zayn, motioning for Harry to join them. “Ones that live long fish lives, like, and die of normal things.”

“Natural fish causes,” Harry supplies, testing out feeling normal again, feeling like Zayn slipping under to see how it goes. Because he should feel normal anyway.

Zayn scowls, bobbing up and down in the water. “Don’t take the piss.”

“Just trying to help,” Niall shrugs, and a quick glance in Harry’s direction makes Harry wonder who, exactly, Niall is trying to help. 

“We’re being very reassuring,” Harry pokes at Niall under the water, Niall grinning over at him. “Because you’re very, very scared.”

“Can we just get on with it, then?” Zayn rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling, which...it just feels better, Harry hoping that he’s already forgotten about what he asked about earlier.

“Right,” Niall says, “it’s pretty easy, actually. You’re good with your face down in there, so this is just like that.”

“It’s just swimming, but underwater.” He and Niall failed to map out their underwater lessons, probably because they gave up on their version of golfing what feels like ages ago, back when Niall’s dodgy knee started really acting up again. It’s true, though. 

“That’s it?” Zayn doesn’t look like he believes them. “I needed a bleedin’ lesson for this?”

“You needed all the other lessons,” Harry doesn’t allow himself to rest his palm on Zayn’s shoulder like he normally would, but he keeps his voice even. 

“This is it!” Niall laughs, his eyes reflecting the blue water. “It’s IT.”

“So I just…” Zayn ducks under again, then runs his hands back through his hair when he pops up. 

“And do your strokes,” Niall adds, ducking under and swimming past Harry, squeezing Harry’s hip at some point in the process. 

“It’s pretty simple, Zayn, you just have to...just do it.” Harry watches Zayn consider, his jaw twitching.

“Alright.” Zayn relents finally, taking a deep breath and exhaling. 

“We’re right here.” Niall says, slowly backing up until he’s standing in the shallows. “You swim toward me, and Haz’ll be right behind.” 

“I’m your spot.” Harry touches Zayn then, feeling how he’s shivering a little.

“Yeah.” Zayn takes a deep breath again, ducking under and swimming away from Harry a little awkwardly, but he’s still doing it. And it’s not far, but he makes it to Niall without any incident, gasping a little when he emerges, taking deep gulps of hair and touching his nose, like he can’t believe what just happened. Like he’s surprised he’s still able to breathe.

“Wicked!” Niall yells, and he half drags Zayn up to a standing position in the chest high water, pulling him into a tight hug. Harry’s still treading water, and all the sketches on Niall blend in with Zayn’s real tattoos.

Harry’s still treading water, and Niall places a smacking kiss on Zayn’s lips, hands on each of his cheeks, Zayn’s knuckles going white as he grips Niall’s shoulder. 

“‘s not bad, after all.” Zayn says, and he turns to where Harry is still trying to keep himself afloat, grinning at him, his eyes crinkling up at the corners.

The hot prick of tears and the lump of frustration in the back of his throat takes Harry by surprise, but he’s able to smile at them both before he ducks underwater. At least. 

**

“Fore,” Harry says quietly to himself, before swinging hard and sending another golf ball out into the water. This one looks like it skips across the surface before disappearing. At this rate, Harry will empty the bucket soon. And they had loads.

Stretching, Harry looks at how close the sun is to the water, trying to discern what time it might be. His watch is back in his room and he hasn’t looked at his phone in weeks. Maybe this is what he needs to relax and even back into himself, to not worry so much about time. 

He’ll try anything at this point, get himself out of this dreadful pout, dragged down no matter how the others feel. He reaches down and pulls out another ball, skimming his thumb over the surface. He’s not sure when, but Zayn must’ve gotten a hold of the bucket one day, drawing a little face on each one. It seems like a massive joke that this one has a frown with a miniature furrowed brow. Carefully placing it on his makeshift tee of a beer bottle buried in the sand, he takes a deep breath before sending it as far away as he’s able.

“Niiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiice,” comes Niall’s voice from somewhere behind him, and Harry turns, seeing him and Zayn collapsing on the sand, Niall stripping off his tank top and handing it to Zayn, who already looks like he’s about to pass out, balling up Niall’s top under his head. 

“How was it?” Harry had begged off after the lesson when Niall started going on about trying to go to the market, all three of them this time, that he bet they were so well known by now that no one would recognize them as anything other than tourists. Harry’s surprised Zayn went along with it, to be well and truly honest, but maybe swimming underwater without dying was causing him to make rash decisions. Maybe this place was changing him.

“Like I said,” Niall looks like he’s all excess energy, leaning forward to do a roll in the sand, ending up on his back. “Not one proper notice.”

“Careful, Niall,” Zayn says quietly, Harry sure that he noticed too how Niall’s rubbing at his knee, grimacing slightly around his words. “Was nice though, Haz.” His smile looks relaxed.

“Amazing, right?” Harry feels himself smile back. “Love the market.”

“Probably should give it a few days though,” Niall’s saying, looking up at the sky and stretching out his arms and legs like he’s making a sand angel, “just to be safe.”

“Okay, _Payno_ ,” Harry grabs another ball, not bothering to look before setting it on the mouth of the bottle. “Thanks for looking out.”

“He’d love this place,” Zayn murmurs, and Harry can’t help but notice how he’s reached his arm out now, scratching at Niall’s head, Niall’s eyelids drooping. “Lou, too.”

“If he was here, he’d be worse than the two of you mam types, worried about m’dodgy knee, put on more sunblock now or you’ll be burned, and _oh, I’m sorry I knocked you down_.” Niall snorts derisively, Zayn cracking up next to him.

“Be nice,” Harry says, as a warning, before swinging and whiffing hard, missing the bottle entirely. Knocked off his balance, he’s on his back in the sand with the wind knocked out of him before he realizes what happened.

There’s a pause, and then Niall and Zayn start laughing. Harry raises himself up on his elbows, glaring over at them, which sets them off even harder. 

“That’s what you get!” Niall crows, clutching at his stomach like he’s dying, “for tellin’ me to be nice.”

“Sorry mate,” Zayn shakes his head, smiling. 

“I give up.” Harry tips his head back, looking up at the clouds and wondering why he just can’t go tackle them both, why he even cares. 

“Here ya go,” something hard hits his chest, and then Niall’s grinning face appears in his eyeline, “your lucky ball.” Harry fumbles around, closing his fingers over the ball. Sitting up, he watches Niall drive a few, the line of his back relaxed and easy. 

Zayn’s sprawled out still, unmoving. Whenever Harry looks over at him he smiles, slow and lazy, eyes darting back to Niall whenever he hits something. It’s distracting. 

“Arsehole,” Niall’s saying while he prods at Harry’s side with his foot after who knows how long, Harry’s lost track, “have a go.” Holding out a hand, he drags Harry up to his feet, giving him an odd look once Harry’s eye level. Harry shrugs it off, nudging past Niall. 

“Here goes,” Harry says, and he doesn’t look back at Zayn as he places the ball on the tee, the little face sticking its tongue out, mocking him. 

**

“Look at ‘im,” Niall says, his voice already slowing down even though Harry didn’t think they’ve had that many, “the day did him in.”

“Not asleep,” Zayn says from the lounger where he’s sprawled out, “just restin’ my eyes.”

“That’s not the same as sleep at all,” Harry hears how sarcastic his voice sounds, Niall rolling his eyes at him from where he’s laying out in the hammock, a beer bottle in each hand, resting on his chest like alcoholic tits. 

“‘s not.” Zayn sighs, not opening his eyes to look at Harry. “If I was asleep, I wouldn’t be talkin’.”

“A fair point.” Niall wiggles, taking a long pull from one of the bottles. “I’m not done for yet.”

“Who’s on kitchen duty tonight?” Harry asks, stretching out his leg to jostle the hammock. “Grilling does not count as cooking, Niall.”

“That can be like, for future us to do,” Niall laughs, “mornin’ us.”

“Irresponsible.” Harry pokes at the hammock again, harder this time.

“Never said I was responsible to start.”

“I’m far too drunk, Niall, so.” Harry assesses the bottles lined up next to him on the ground, a number higher than what he remembers finishing. He feels a little more relaxed, at least. Maybe forcing himself to act normal for the majority of the day helped.

“And I’m not?” Niall kicks back at Harry, swaying dangerously. 

“Sod it,” Zayn says then, and when Harry cranes his neck around to look, Zayn’s already standing. “I’ll do it, you two stay.”

Niall’s voice sounds softer, immediately. “Ah, Zayn, you don’t-”

“‘s fine.” Zayn wraps his fingers around the webbing closest to the tree, steadying the hammock. “Don’t mind.”

Harry doesn’t say anything, doing his best to return Zayn’s smile as he passes. He and Niall don’t speak for what feels like forever to Harry, staring up at the sky while he listens to Niall reach down and open another bottle, then another. 

“Do y’think,” Harry finally asks, slowly, “that Zayn’s rolled any?” He could use a little more. To feel more relaxed. Pile on this feeling. 

“Don’t know,” comes Niall’s reply, after a moment. “He’s been gone a while. Go check on ‘im.”

“You don’t want to?” It slips out of Harry’s mouth before he even has a chance to think, and it hangs in the air between them, the edge to Harry’s words echoing. 

“Just go, Haz.” Niall sighs then, the click of a bottle hitting the ground sounding louder than anything to Harry in that moment. He walks into the house without looking back.

It’s quiet when he steps through the door, and Zayn isn’t in the kitchen, which looks cleaner than it’s been in days. Walking slowly so he doesn’t stumble, Harry checks the sitting room first, standing half in the hallway and making an educated guess, walking down to Zayn’s room. The light’s on, so Harry thinks maybe Zayn felt like a bit of a draw, maybe- 

Zayn’s on the bed still in his clothes from the day, breathing deep and even. Harry steps a little closer, his hand hovering over Zayn’s ankle. Harry doesn’t want him to wake up. He doesn’t think. 

He steps back, shutting off the light on his way out. 

**

“He’s asleep.” Harry says when he gets back outside, Niall still swaying in the hammock, clutching a beer to his chest like a cuddly toy. 

“Ah,” Niall squints up at him, “should’ve guessed. Oi, careful,” he protests, when Harry pushes at his side, feeling like he needs to get close to him, do _something_. Niall relents quickly enough, shifting and anchoring a foot on the ground while Harry settles next to him. 

“Better,” Harry says once he’s settled, the hammock moving slightly when he reaches for another beer, twisting the cap and setting it on his stomach, the metal cold against his bare skin. He takes a long pull, waits for Niall to speak. Harry knows that no matter what he will, eventually.

“I like the nights ‘ere,” is what Niall says, surprisingly, his voice warm and open. “Not that the days aren’t proper great, but. The nights.”

“Huh,” Harry glances over at Niall, who’s looking up, the moon reflecting off of his eyes, slightly glassy. “Why?”

“‘s clear,” Niall shrugs, the hammock swaying in time, “‘cuz if I wanted, I could go on down the beach. ‘s not seein’ the place from a hotel room, ya know?” Harry holds his breath, let’s Niall continue. “A sick hotel room, yeah, but. I like this. ‘preciate it. It’s quiet.”

“Didn’t know,” Harry’s voice comes out thick, and he clears his throat so he can continue, “you felt that way.”

“Why wouldn’t I?” Niall’s voice is low, and Harry doesn’t look at him again. “I love it, yeah? I’m grateful, like. But it ain’t easy, miles away from easy.”

“I s’pose,” Harry speaks slowly, trying to sort through his thoughts, “that it’s been easy, for us. You and me. That things roll off your back. That I should-” He stops, feeling the frustration creep up the back of his neck, making his muscles rigid.

Niall takes a long drink. Harry can hear him swallow. “Haz,” he starts.

“Don’t know what I’m saying,” Harry mutters, feeling his face burn hot. 

“‘s okay to feel like shit, sometimes,” Niall says, shrugging again. He fumbles, his fingers cold with condensation from the bottle in his hand knocking against Harry’s side, making him squirm. He hooks a finger in the waistband of Harry’s shorts, and it’s strange how this little contact makes Harry feel a touch more anchored. 

“Okay,” is all Harry can think of to say, Niall solid by his side. 

“But,” Niall shifts again, his head knocking against Harry’s, “ya gotta stop being such a _cunt_.” It comes out, plain and harsh and clear, and Harry can count on one hand the number of times he’s heard Niall angry. And this is the first time it’s ever been directed at him.

“I’m-” Harry starts, but Niall presses his elbow against him until he stops.

“T’ three of us are all here for reasons, like,” Niall starts, and Harry starts blinking immediately, setting down his bottle and closing his fingers around the cap still on his chest, the sharp ridges digging into this skin. “And Zayn, like, he was so bad, right? Worried ‘bout ‘im. ‘bout both of ya. And stuff...it happens, right? With us. All of us. Just ‘cuz Zayn and I…” He pauses.

Harry pinches the cap closed with his fingertips, listens to Niall yell at him, wishes he could explain how he feels left out. Of everything. How maybe he’s jealous. How maybe he’s a bloody mess. How everything he feels is rubbish. 

“There’s nothin’ to be jealous of,” Niall starts again, his voice softer now, and Harry’s insides seize up entirely, wondering how Niall always knows what to say, to cut right to it. “We’re all here, we’re all fuckin’ up together, right?”

“Right,” Harry whispers, all that his voice will allow. Niall’s still pressing his fingertips into Harry’s side, low on his hip, and Harry concentrates on that so he won’t think about anything else. 

“Maybe I should be the one with all the hurt feelins,” Harry knows Niall’s trying to laugh, but it comes out as this breathless sound instead, “you moonin’ over Zayn, when here I was, kissin’ you all nice and sweet out in the water.”

“I’m not,” Harry protests immediately, his voice weak, but Niall just laughs, it sounding more real this time. 

“You must think I’m the grandest idiot,” Niall says, “head of the eejit parade.” 

“Niall.” Harry’s not sure what else to say, at this point. Because it’s not Niall. It might not even be Zayn. 

“Should’ve known,” Niall huffs, “you wanted this trip to be for just you two.” He’s elbowing Harry again, and Harry thinks he’s joking, but maybe he’s not. Maybe Harry’s just bad at picking up on signals. So he flips himself quickly, hoping the hammock won’t upset completely, launching himself on top of Niall. 

“Better, Nialler?” Harry asks, Niall laughing and squirming underneath him, swatting at Harry’s back when Harry starts licking the side of his face, tasting salt, tasting the ocean. “Better?” 

“Get off, _jesus_.” Niall’s pushing at him, moving his face, which gives Harry the opportunity to get his other side, fingers solidly wrapped around the webbing on either side of Niall’s head. 

“I’m not Jesus,” Harry whispers against Niall’s ear, relaxing and going full dead weight on top of him. Niall’s still struggling ineffectually until suddenly he’s not, his hands coming up to grip Harry’s sides. “You wish I was, Niall?”

They’re both breathing so loud, Harry notices, at the same moment he realizes that he’s mouthing at Niall’s neck now, tracing his tongue on the line of muscle there when Niall’s body stiffens against his, the entire hammock going statue still for a moment. Warmth pools in Harry’s chest then, flooding down his limbs until he feels like he’s on fire, Niall’s fingers digging into his sides now, hard.

“You’re here,” Harry whispers again, shifting now so one of his legs goes between Niall’s, “and I wanted that.” When he pulls back then, Niall’s staring up at him, worrying his lip between his teeth. He’s flushed and silent for once, and he nods then, Harry’s eyes traveling down to his collarbone where Zayn’s written _Saturday_ there, marker half faded where the skin stretches taut over the bone. It makes Harry’s stomach flip over, makes him want to set himself on fire and then run down into the water to put himself out. 

And Niall, he’s just there, waiting for Harry to decide what to do next, his fingers moving in slow circles against Harry’s skin. Harry’s not sure if it’s that, or the breeze, which is making him shiver, giving him goosebumps. 

Niall makes this frustrated sound then, craning his neck up to brush Harry’s lips with his own, rocking his hips a little. It sounds like he says something like “c’mon” into Harry’s mouth, his voice thick and heavy, but at that point Harry’s mind has sailed somewhere far, far away, concentrating instead on extricating one hand’s worth of fingers from the hammock to press his hand against Niall’s neck. 

He’s careful, at first, testing it out now that they’re on solid ground, feeling like they’re all mixed up together. He’s not sure which one of them is more drunk, their mouths meeting messily, Niall keeping one hand anchored on Harry’s lower back with his fingers splayed out along the top of Harry’s arse, the other tangled in Harry’s curls. 

Harry has to bite back a hiss when Niall pulls his head back a little too hard, his teeth grazing along the column of Harry’s neck. It makes him scramble a bit, try to get Niall back by bumping his leg up against him where he can feel Niall hard against his hip, the hammock swaying violently when Niall pulls back suddenly, gasping.

“Fuck it, Harry,” Niall tugs at his hair, “mind it, will ya? With your knee?”

“Sorry,” Harry mumbles, biting back a laugh, just wishing he was mindless and wrapped up again, “better?” He rolls his hips delicately this time, Niall groaning.

“Ah,” Niall growls, the hairs on the back of Harry’s neck standing up. Niall doesn’t say anymore, just licks his way back into Harry’s mouth, taking Harry by surprise. He’s kissing Harry with what feels like his whole body now, hands and legs everywhere. Harry’s half sure he’s gonna just shoot off in his pants without warning when he’s on the ground suddenly, a pain blooming at the base of his spine, Niall groaning next to him and clutching his head. 

“This,” Niall says, even his chest looking flushed, “‘s poor plannin’.” He laughs then, falling back with this chest heaving, adjusting himself and moaning slightly. Harry can’t stop staring. 

“Let’s go inside,” Harry suggests, threading his fingers through the dark strands of Niall’s hair, Niall reaching up to wrap his fingers around Harry’s wrist, holding him there. 

“Wicked,” he whispers, licking his lips. It feels obscene to Harry. “Dunno if I can get up.”

“Here,” Harry takes some deep breaths, trying to calm himself, helping Niall up without touching him too much. He feels so drunk, on everything. He can’t trust himself. 

“My room,” Niall mumbles once they’re upright, mouth pressed against Harry’s ear. He’s talking too loud. Harry doesn’t care. 

“Wait, sand,” Harry realizes once they’re in the house, pushing his palm flat on Niall’s chest until he’s against the wall, eyes half lidded as he looks down at Harry. Harry swipes at the sand still sticking to Niall’s legs, brushes it from his shorts. Harry pauses then, taking his time and palming Niall’s half hard dick, looking up at Niall. Niall’s eyes are closed. 

“Fuck t’sand,” he mumbles, and when Harry stands, squeezing his hand slightly, Niall’s eyes open now, his pupils so far blown out they almost obscure the bright blue. 

Harry’s proper glad that Niall’s room is first in the hallway, the two of them collapsing on the bed in a tangle like they do when they play wrestle on stage, except for how this is entirely different. He pushes Niall up the bed until they’re laying across it diagonally, taking a moment to look at the dark red mark on Niall’s temple from where he hit the ground, testing it out with his fingers.

“You okay?” He asks, and it feels hot to him, a little swollen, “didn’t mean to hurt you.” 

Niall’s face softens then, his eyes widening. He opens his mouth, like he’s going to say something, but Harry kisses him before he can, swallowing up whatever words were on the tip of his tongue. Niall gives into it, and when his fingers trail up the side of Harry’s neck the rough skin of his callouses snag a bit, Harry biting down on his lip accidentally. Niall groans then, biting Harry back with a satisfied sound, and Harry laughs. 

Moving his mouth in a line down Niall’s chest, Harry rests his cheek there, draping his thigh over Niall so he can’t move. Niall’s breathing heavy underneath him, and Harry presses his leg down, Niall pushing up against him, in a rhythm. It pushes his hip against Harry’s cock, and Harry bites his lip, looking down at Niall’s hipbone, like he wanted.

Pushes down Niall’s shorts just enough, so he can trace his fingers against the drawing Zayn spent so much time on the other day, still so dark against Niall’s fair skin. He can’t make out what it is, but it doesn’t matter at the moment, tracing his fingers over it again and again, until Niall makes a frustrated sound, mumbling something about how it tickles, pulling him up again and fitting his mouth over Harry’s.

It feels like it goes on forever, until Harry feels like his lips are swollen and aching, feeling sleepy, feeling more drunk than before. Niall’s still pressing against him, but his kisses are sloppy, less urgent. He moves against Harry, lazily. Comforting. 

**

When Harry wakes up he feels better than he has in ages, even with a hangover headache already starting between his eyes. He feels more settled, at least, like he’s doing a puzzle and found a piece he’s missing. And yet. There’s one more he’s looking for.

Niall’s snoring lightly next to him, his hand warm where it rests on Harry’s stomach, just below his butterfly. It hits him then, that he still has that nagging feeling, that odd sense of loneliness. He feels a bit like a shit about it, easing carefully off of the bed because Niall is a lighter sleeper than Zayn is, forcing his limbs to behave as he pulls the blanket up over Niall’s shoulders.

He can’t help himself then, leaning forward and hoping his weight doesn’t dip the mattress too badly, pressing his lips to Niall’s forehead for a few seconds, longer than he knows he should. Niall doesn’t stir.

Zayn’s in the same position as he was earlier when Harry opens the door, his hair moving in the breeze from the window. Harry hesitates then, unsure even when he exhales a shaky breath, climbing in next to Zayn so he’s facing him.

He feels better, immediately. It hits him so hard that he blinks, curling up so his knees are almost touching Zayn’s. He raises his hand, skimming his palm lightly over Zayn’s beard. 

Harry’s doing that slow blinking thing now, knows he’s about to give into sleep, but when he closes his eyes something in Zayn’s breathing changes. When Harry looks up Zayn’s eyes are open, clear and staring at him. 

Harry’s not sure what to do, so he looks down at Zayn’s hand where it rests between them, his fingers tapping out some sort of nervous rhythm. When he looks back up, he doesn’t break eye contact with Zayn this time, moving his own hand until their fingers touch, Zayn’s eyes drifting closed briefly at the contact. Harry wonders, then, what Zayn is thinking, since his eyes keep sliding down to look at Harry’s mouth. He waits.

Zayn’s hand fumbles between them then, his fingers grasping at Harry’s properly and squeezing once, holding him there. His eyes close, his breathing evening back out again. 

The last thing Harry thinks before he can’t remember anything else is how Zayn’s the one that loves so easily. How he’s the slowest to forgive. How much he’s dealing with, still. 

**

When Harry wakes up the next morning Zayn is gone, and the house has never felt so big. So quiet. 

**

He stumbles outside and down the beach, following Niall’s voice as he goes on about something, Zayn laughing. When he comes upon them Zayn is finishing up applying sunblock on Niall’s back.

“Morning,” Harry says, finally, the two of them looking up in his direction. Niall grins and Zayn frowns, which feels just about right to Harry, at that moment.

“Just in time!” Niall says, pushing his tongue out at Harry in a lewd gesture, looking him up and down before cackling at himself. “Zayn, do Harry,” he calls out over his shoulder, heading out toward the water, dark hair standing up around his head. Harry looks over at Zayn then, raising his eyebrows, unsure.

“‘s fine,” Zayn shrugs, his voice sounding sort of hollow. Harry would worry, then, but all he can concentrate on is Zayn’s cool fingertips on his back, thumb smoothing over his spine.

**

It’s like an unspoken agreement between them all now that Zayn’s more comfortable in the water - it’s less like a lesson, Niall going so far as to splash Zayn a bit more every time he passes by, staying mostly in the shallows but still swimming. It’s the oddest thing, how he’s still awkward but graceful, gliding jerkily through the water. 

It doesn’t make sense to Harry, how things are frustratingly normal between he and Niall, between Zayn and Niall. 

“Alright,” Zayn’s saying then, and Harry’s positive that he’s only speaking in Niall’s direction, “‘m knackered. I’m goin’ in.”

“Cheers,” Niall grins, planting his palms flat on Zayn’s shoulders and jumping up and down behind him. 

“Have a good one,” Harry says, feeling entirely redundant in that moment. He watches Zayn walk up the beach, the line of his back rigid. He never did reply. 

“Harryyy,” Niall’s behind him then, drawing out his name, pushing him down, “get down, will ya?” It takes Harry a second to realize what Niall’s trying to do as he tickles at Harry’s sides, scrambling up his back. Finally, Harry takes a deep breath and ducks under the water, Niall sitting properly on his shoulders. Standing up and swaying a bit, Harry walks out further until the water’s almost up to his chin so it’s easier to support Niall.

“Niall,” Harry curls his hands around Niall’s shins, “there’s no one else to play against.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Niall’s voice sounds far away, his fingers tangling in Harry’s hair. “Ya know? I feel proper tall.”

“Idiot,” Harry hopes it comes out with all of the affection he’s feeling for Niall, in that moment. How it feels like it might explode out of his chest. 

He walks back and forth, Niall going on about how the world looks loads different from this vantage point, how if he ever needs to get bionic legs he’s gonna get the extra long ones, how Harry never told him great those extra few inches are. His fingertips keep brushing against the tops of Harry’s ears, and Harry tries his best, tamping down everything he’s wondering about Zayn. 

“Niall,” Harry says finally, when his shoulders are starting to ache so he knows he’ll lose his chance soon, while it’s not physically possible to look Niall in the face. “About last night, I….” Harry trails off, unsure what he really wants to say. 

Niall’s hands stop moving, his legs going rigid under Harry’s palms. Harry tries to match his stillness.

“It’s alright,” the words drift down to Harry eventually, “had a big wank in t’shower this morning.” He laughs then, and everything throws Harry completely off balance, tipping Niall back into the water with a splash. Niall jumps on him underwater then, the two of them wrestling for the upper hand until Harry’s sure he’ll never catch his breath properly again. 

**

A couple of days pass by and it’s more of the same, Harry wondering if they’ll ever be able to go back to those few days in the middle before he fucked it all up, Zayn improving and all of them laughing, all of them together. 

Zayn’s been going on these hours long runs instead of swimming in the afternoon, rinsing himself off in the outdoor shower afterward. They still eat together, they still lay around together drinking after dinner. It’s entirely the same, except for how it’s different and wrong and Harry feels like he was broken entirely, and now all of his bones are knitting back together backwards. 

It feels wrong, sleeping in his own room at night. Knowing the others are alone in theirs. 

**

“Going to pick up a few things,” Niall tosses the empty cloth bag at Harry where he’s lying in the hammock, trying to tune the guitar. “You’re makin’ it worse.” Niall makes a face. 

“Better than what it was,” Harry sighs then, setting it carefully on the ground. “Zayn running?”

“He just needs time,” is how Niall says yes, and he sits carefully next to Harry’s hip then, pressing his hand to the side of Harry’s face and looking into his eyes, “alright?” It feels so intimate that Harry has to close his eyes against the rush of feelings welling up, his jaw aching with it.

“Get me some bananas, will you?” He asks, keeping his eyes closed until the hammock shifts, Niall’s lips brushing his lightly before he’s gone completely.

“Just for you,” are Niall’s parting words, and Harry lies there for a moment longer, counting to ten before picking up the guitar and carrying it back into the house to put it where Niall usually does, propped up in the window seat overlooking their ocean view. 

Zayn jogs by when Harry looks out, disappearing down the beach. Harry’s stomach aches. 

Walking into the kitchen, Harry hesitates in front of the drawer before opening it up and reaching in to extricate his phone from the tangle of utensils, swiping his thumb across the blank screen before turning it on. There’s a pause when it boots up before the screen is crowded with notifications, Harry skimming through a couple of angry ones from Gemma and his mum before laughing at the progression of Liam’s worry.

_How’s the surfing, mate? I’m well jealous! :)_

_Is Zayn ok? Don’t spare me. Perrie did an interview and they didn’t ask her about him so that’s a good sign._

_Do you think it’s a good sign?_

_Went fishing with my dad. Remember when we went fishing? Are you lads fishing out there?_

_How’s the knee, I don’t want to bother Niall about it_

_Didn’t mean to knock him about so hard_

_make sure he ices it_

_hope ur getting proper rest haz, you looked tired but I didn’t say anything :(_

_please don’t be arrested. text me_

Harry smiles then, a burning in his chest when he quickly texts Liam back a string of every smiley face he has available, considering that good enough. 

Louis didn’t text so much as send Harry what looks to be 20 snapchats, all of his trousers every day with comments about what mood they’re supposed to be. “sod it”, “eleanor picked these”, “I’m a thief! (stolen from you)”, “purple is proper”, “can you tell I’m not wearing pants?”

As better as it all makes Harry feel, there’s also a load of bullshit, their updated schedule, texts from people asking him to go out to this event, make an appearance here, please wear this there. It’s exhausting. 

Knowing that there’s a 50/50 chance Niall will remember to bring him the bananas, Harry grabs the last one from the counter, carrying his phone outside with him. He looks at the empty hammock for a moment, swaying gently in the breeze, before placing the banana in the middle and taking a snapchat, sending it to Lou. 

He sits on the ground, looking over at the hammock for a second. Thinks about how it’s so much better than the bus. How even though he still feels shitty, that even though there’s a hole somewhere in his heart, it’s slowly filling in. 

Getting up, Harry turns off his phone and walks back into the kitchen, burying it again in the drawer and bumping it closed with his hip. 

**

Taking the joint when Niall passes it to him, Harry lays on his back with his eyes closed, taking a long drag and holding the smoke in his lungs until it burns and he can’t anymore. He keeps his eyes closed, in case the other two are watching him. 

“Better, innit?” Zayn’s saying above him, his voice syrupy slow when he takes the joint from Harry. Harry feels like he’s one big nerve ending, sparks flowing between them when Zayn’s fingers brush his. “Niall, this was good. Good idea.”

“Don’t I always have good ideas?” Niall’s laughing on his other side, and Harry feels slow and grateful that Niall had suggested this after dinner, no excuses, they only have a handful of days left and enough pot to smoke out a bus of Jamaicans. 

Zayn had agreed to it after only a brief moment, his eyes flicking up to meet Harry’s while Niall crowed in the background, always loud. 

Niall, who’s prodding at Harry’s shoulder now, and when Harry opens his eyes Niall’s lighting up another, the flame illuminating shadows on his face before it’s dark again, the tip glowing orange. Harry feels crowded in by the heavy, sweet smell, his limbs gone slow and graceful, unlike himself. 

“C’mere,” Niall’s saying, tugging Harry so he’s in a sitting position. “Gonna,” he takes a drag, exhaling out the side of his mouth, “c’mere.” 

“You’re shit at it,” Harry says, laughing slow when he remembers Niall’s last try at a shotgun, how his lips pressed against Zayn’s, the smoke escaping between them. He glances at Zayn then, who’s watching them while he finishes off the other joint, blowing smoke rings in Harry’s direction.

“Shut up, Harry,” Niall says, settling on top of Harry so he’s straddling him, knees on either side of Harry’s hips. “‘m better now, here,” he places a steadying hand on Harry’s neck, wrist brushing against the skin there, and Harry’s not sure whose pulse belongs to who when Niall takes a hit and leans in, exhaling steadily into Harry’s mouth this time, staying there while Harry holds it in, staying there when Harry finally exhales, back into Niall’s mouth.

Niall’s eyes are bright, bright blue, and Zayn’s laughing now above them.

“Nialler, look at’you,” he says, his words pushing together. Harry tips his head back, squeezes at Niall’s thigh until he squirms and hands the rest of the joint to Zayn for finishing, his other hand sliding down Harry’s chest, fitting underneath Harry’s open shirt to press there, skin to skin. 

He feels full, too full of everything, wants to climb the moonlight to get over to where Zayn is lying, wants to swallow Niall whole. He pushes at Niall again, struggling to get up.

“What are you,” Niall starts, breathless, and Harry struggles again, until they’re both miraculously standing. 

“Water,” he says, hoping they understand as he walks down the sand to the shoreline, stripping off his shirt and wading in, counting the waves as they break against his legs. They’re following him, and when Harry turns Zayn is wading into the water just behind Niall, looking sure and not at all unsteady like he did, way back during the first lesson when Niall literally dragged him in. 

“Feels nice,” he says, looking at Harry, and for the first time Harry notices how the dark circles under his eyes are almost gone. How he looks younger. And maybe it’s because he’s high, but Harry feels like he’s allowed to touch Zayn again, that it’s okay. 

“This place is magic,” Niall sighs, swimming around in circles, the only person Harry knows who gets high and has excess energy.

“What is it ‘bout you and magic when we smoke?” Zayn asks, moving his arms out in front of him in the water, back and forth, all loose limbs and easy smiles. 

“Dunno,” Niall pauses in his swimming, treading water next to Harry, his foot bumping Harry’s leg, “it’s just...ya know, magic.”

“Right,” Zayn says, and he laughs. It’s like it’s so loud that it ripples the water. 

They swim quietly like that for ages and ages, occasionally bumping into one another in the moonlight, laughing and then starting over again. Harry feels full to bursting. 

“Need a pint,” Niall’s mumbling then, “and a piss. I’ll be back.” He splashes about, walking solidly up the beach. 

Zayn’s floating on his back next to Harry, his head tipped back like they told him to, and Harry knows he should say something. He knows he should. He just doesn’t know what to say. Opening his mouth, Harry tries to form words but then Zayn’s reaching out, touching his shoulder, fingers sliding down his arm before cupping Harry’s elbow, briefly. 

So he doesn’t say anything. He floats instead, stretching his arm out until he bumps into Zayn’s, walks his fingers down Zayn’s forearm until their fingers touch, hooking his pinky around Zayn’s. He counts until he can’t think of any more numbers, until the waters still around them. 

“Should go check,” Zayn sighs out, “on Niall.” His hand pulls away from Harry’s, water splashing about. Harry rights himself, looking up at Zayn as he walks out, looking back over at Harry, “you coming?”

Harry nods, feeling unsure and open and broken. He follows Zayn a few steps out of the water before he can’t stop it, he can’t.

“Zayn,” he says, and Zayn stops, turning with his hair dripping onto his shoulders. 

“Yeah?” He asks, and Harry notices how his eyes are so glassy it’s like they’re glittering.

“I miss you,” Harry says helplessly. Zayn’s eyes widen, his mouth hanging open before he replies.

“‘m here,” Zayn blinks at him, shoulders dropping slightly, speaking carefully. “Could say the same, you know. To you.”

“Makes two of us, then.” Harry’s lost all control, and when Zayn shakes his head, turning like he’s about to start walking again, Harry launches himself, tackling Zayn and draping himself on top of him, holding him down. Zayn doesn’t struggle, just places his hands on Harry’s chest, palming the swallow on either side. He looks up at Harry. 

“I-” Harry starts, before giving up on trying to untangle his thoughts completely, leaning down and placing his lips over Zayn’s like they’re shotgunning, not kissing him properly. Harry can feel sand sticking to his forearms where he’s got them bracketed on either side of Zayn, and the waves are breaking now, flowing over their legs as they lie in the half wet sand. 

Harry keeps his eyes open until Zayn closes his, one hand moving up to tug at the back of Harry’s hair, pulling him down and sliding his lips over Harry’s fully. It’s an overwhelming feeling when Zayn’s tongue touches his, everything within Harry rising and falling all at once, hot tears pricking at the back of his eyes. He pulls away for a moment, gasping into Zayn’s collarbone, Zayn’s fingers moving in soothing patterns over the back of his neck. 

Zayn doesn’t ask him how he is, just gives him a minute before rolling them over, Harry going soft and pliant for him. He smooths his hands over Harry’s forehead, his eyes dark, before kissing him again, open mouthed and messy, his surprising weight anchoring Harry to the ground. 

Zayn rolls his hips down into Harry’s, and it’s then Harry notices just how covered in sand they are, at just how much he’d like to be uncovered, right now.

“Zayn,” he murmurs, against Zayn’s neck, “let’s go rinse off.”

“Yeah,” Zayn’s nodding, his gaze unsteady. They get up, separately, Harry repeating to himself over and over again that he can’t run, not like he wants.

**

“Niall’s dead,” Harry announces when Zayn catches up to him, the two of them staring down at where Niall’s passed out in the hammock, three beer bottles scattered on top of him.

“Not dead,” Zayn mumbles, his hand pressing against the small of Harry’s back. Harry can’t move, but Zayn does, poking at Niall’s leg with his other hand. Niall groans then, turning his face to the side. “See? He’s fine.”

“Gonna have a pattern on his face.” Harry says, following Zayn who’s already ahead of him, disappearing into the outdoor shower stall. 

“He’ll b’fine,” Zayn adjusts the water, glancing over his shoulder at Harry. “Not too cold, right?” He steps under the spray then, water dripping in steady streams down his face, his eyes closed. “Coming?”

“Yeah,” Harry steps forward. “Here, have a wash-” Harry grabs the bottle of shampoo they keep outside, the special color care one he picked up for Niall, squeezing a handful into his palm before carefully lathering Zayn’s hair, feeling the grit of the sand under his fingertips. Zayn’s eyes are open now, looking up into Harry’s, watching him silently while he pushes him back, grazes a finger under Zayn’s chin to tilt his head back so he can rinse. 

He stoops down a bit so Zayn can do the same, feeling crowded, feeling like Zayn’s not close enough, Zayn already kissing him before he’s even done rinsing. Zayn’s hands are so warm, and the water is still cold when Zayn pushes him out of the spray and up against the wall, framing Harry’s head with his hands as he presses against him, hard against Harry’s thigh. Harry’s mind is swimming, and all he can think about is want, taking deep breaths to control himself. 

Zayn angles his head, moving to kiss Harry even deeper, and Harry’s mind fires off all at once before shutting down entirely, just focusing on how he feels, how he hopes Zayn feels. It’s like the water gets colder and colder, Zayn warmer and warmer against him. 

“Gotta turn this off,” Zayn says, breathless, reaching up to turn off the spray, his chest heaving against Harry’s. “Sorry.”

“I guess,” Harry says, unsure and hard as fuck and aimless, “I can go put Niall to bed.” He shakes his head then, trying to get the excess water off, while Zayn exhales. 

“Need a minute,” he says, his voice so shaky that Harry’s heart bottoms out before climbing up into his throat. He feels like he can’t swallow, can’t breathe.

Wordlessly, Harry nods, goes to track down Niall.

**

“Hazzer,” Niall’s saying, uncooperative dead weight against Harry as he drags him into his bed, “‘f you could go anywhere…”

Harry drags the blanket over Niall, who’s already curled in on himself, smiling with his eyes half closed, looking up at Harry expectantly. Harry leans down, pushing Niall’s hair off of his forehead. Doesn’t even need time to consider.

“Here,” Harry answers, “home.” 

“‘s what I thought,” Niall slurs, “love you, Haz.”

“You too, Nialler.” 

**

When Harry walks in Zayn’s room he’s there and changed, wearing a pair of black boxers and rubbing at his hair and beard with a towel, facing away from Harry as he looks out the window. Harry watches him, noticing how dark all of his tattoos look in the faint moonlight. Stepping quietly behind him, Harry grazes his hands over Zayn’s back, tracing them lightly. 

“I’m sorry I’ve been a twat,” Harry says, his voice breaking into the air between them, “dunno why.”

Zayn turns, then, facing Harry, the side of his mouth twitching up like he might smile or frown. He swipes at Harry’s head with the towel once, before tossing it on the floor. 

“Don’t you want to pick that up?” Harry asks, and Zayn fully smiles this time, fingers pushing against Harry’s stomach.

“Mornin’ me can do that,” he says, and before Harry can laugh Zayn is on him; they’re on the bed. There isn’t sand or showers or worrying about Niall between them now, and Harry pushes Zayn down so he’s underneath him, kissing him so hard he’s afraid both of their lips will bruise. 

Harry’s not sure what’s happening or how he feels about it, and he’s okay with that, wanting to focus forever on how Zayn bites at his neck, at how Zayn’s reaching between them to push down Harry’s shorts and then his own pants, his hand clawing at Harry’s arse to pull him even closer, their hips finding a quick rhythm like they’re learning a new song. 

Zayn’s beard is leaving burning trails of heat over Harry’s chest and face, and when Harry closes his fingers around him he groans and arches his back, Harry covering Zayn’s mouth with his own. Not to keep him quiet. Just because Harry wants to feel it, flexing his fingers and thumbing the head of Zayn’s cock to make him do it again. And again. 

“Haz,” Zayn growls, reaching for Harry, but Harry grabs his wrist and holds it. He can wait, pressed against Zayn’s thigh. He wants to experience everything, the anticipation making his brain break into little pieces when Zayn pulls him down to kiss him again, tugging at Harry’s hair and biting his lip when he groans, coming all over Harry’s hand. His breath coming out ragged against Harry’s mouth, echoing in the room. 

“Haz,” Zayn is whispering, gently, “gonna touch you now, yeah?” 

“Please,” Harry says, his voice cracking as Zayn walks his ink-stained fingers across Harry’s thigh. 

**

Harry feels boneless.

The mattress dips, shifting as Zayn does next to him. Harry can’t be arsed to open his eyes and see what Zayn is doing, startled to a more aware state when there’s something cold on his hip. He looks down then, at Zayn concentrating on what he’s sketching out, tongue between his teeth. 

When Harry shifts slightly, Zayn slides his other hand until it rests low on Harry’s stomach, holding him still. Harry rests his hand lightly in Zayn’s hair, and Zayn glances up then, flashing Harry a smile that makes Harry feel like his insides are exploding.

Zayn goes back to work, and as he adds a wave to the center, Harry realizes what it is. 

“What is that?” Harry whispers, remembering every line of it from when he traced it on Niall, knows it by heart.

“Here,” Zayn says slowly, like it’s obvious. “‘t water and the waves, here, and this,” he traces his finger carefully over the swirly design he just did, Harry biting back a moan, “is H, Z, and N.” His voice is low, breath blowing against Harry’s skin, and Harry tightens his grip in Zayn’s hair. 

“You need one,” Harry says, not quite trusting his voice, feeling like it’s coming from somewhere else, from someone else. 

“Gonna get it done proper,” Zayn pauses, “when we leave.”

“If,” Harry corrects, half wishing it were true.

“Yeah,” Zayn smiles, not looking up at Harry. “If.”

**

A heavy weight thuds on top of Harry, knocking the wind out of him. Zayn’s hand is on his stomach, his fingers curling into Harry’s skin at the disruption. 

“Lads,” Niall’s groaning on top of them, and Harry keeps his eyes closed against what he knows is the warm sunlight streaming through the window. Zayn’s mumbling some nonsense next to him, his hand scratching now at Niall’s side as it rests against Harry, all of them piled in the center of the bed.

“Lads,” Niall says again, “Someone needs t’make me eggs. Desperate.”

“Not moving,” Harry mumbles, “Zayn’s it.”

“Alright,” Zayn’s saying to Harry’s surprise, the bed moving as he climbs over them both, dropping sloppy kisses on both of their heads, Harry realizing he’s still naked from the night before, grabbing his pants from the floor and easing them on as he disappears through the doorway.

“Caught you in a delicate position,” Niall half laughs, groaning next to him and looking wrecked. 

“Avert your eyes, Niall,” Harry pulls the sheet over himself anyway, letting his hand rest on Niall’s shoulder and closing his eyes again. Niall pokes at his hip.

“We match,” he mumbles, and when Harry looks over at him he’s smiling, touching the design on his own hip before running his finger over Harry’s. 

“Didn’t want to be left out,” Harry keeps his voice light, even though he knows Niall gets it.

“Think I’ll get it,” Niall murmurs, fingers still stroking at Harry’s skin, “f’real.”

“Niall, I am _shocked_. Someone would see!” Harry reaches up, palming the back of Niall’s head as it rests on his chest.

“I’ll get it on me bum,” Niall yawns, lips bumping against Harry’s skin. “No one’ll see that.”

“Everyone’s seen it,” Harry laughs.

“Figure it can’t hurt too much,” Niall continues, his voice going slow with sleep, “‘f you and Zayn get it done every ot’ day.”

“We’ll go with you,” Harry holds his breath.

“Well I’m not goin’ alone,” Niall laughs, the sound humming through Harry’s chest. “Not alone.”

It seems like no time passes after that, Niall’s comforting weight half on top of him, before Zayn’s coming back in the room, carrying a tray. 

“Up lads,” he says, sounding cheerier than...well, than Harry’s ever heard him sound. “I’ve made some lovely eggs.”

Harry pushes Niall off of him, sitting up and looking blearily at the tray, then up at Zayn, who’s pushing his glasses up his nose.

“And what’s this?” Harry pulls the joint off of the tray next to a pile of forks, holding it up. “This is not an egg, Zayn.”

“They’re not very good,” Zayn shrugs, “so I thought a proper wake and bake was in order.”

“Brilliant,” Niall mumbles, slumping against Harry’s shoulder again, “light it up, blow it in my mouth for me.”

Zayn laughs, a bright sound that echoes in Harry’s ears.


End file.
